"If you take it that way," she said icily, "I'm sorry I mentioned it. I could have gone without your being a whit the wiser."
I lifted my shoulders. "After all, it's entirely your affair. You talked a while ago about mourning your mystery--which suggested a not altogether unpoetical frame of mind."
"There s no poetry at all about it," she declared. "That's all gone. We've come to facts. I'm going to get all the facts. Crucify myself with facts, if you like. That's the only way to get at Truth."
When a woman of Auriol's worth talks like this, one feels ashamed to counter her with platitudes of worldly wisdom. She was going to the Cirque Vendramin. Nothing short of an Act of God could prevent her. I sat helpless for a few moments. At last, taking advantage of a gleam of common sense, I said:
"It's all very well for you to try to get to the bedrock of things. But what about Lackaday?"
"He's not to know."
"He'll have to know," I insisted warmly. "The circus tent is but a small affair. You'll be there under his nose." I followed the swift change on her face. "Of course--if you don't care if he sees you..."
She flashed: "You don't suppose I'm capable of such cruelty!"
"Of course not," said I.
She looked over at the twin spires of the cathedral beneath which the town slumbered in the blue mist of the late afternoon.