“But you have given me no proof.”
“I merely express satisfaction that you have been wise enough to relinquish all thought of marrying her.”
“I really can’t believe that this is the truth. How did you know she was in London?”
“I was told so by one who knows her. She has been staying at the Victoria,” her ladyship answered.
“I don’t believe what you say,” he cried wildly. “No, I won’t believe it. There is some mistake.”
“She has left the hotel,” Lady Marshfield said, fixing her cold eyes on him. “Follow her, and charge her with the deception.”
“It is useless. I am confident that Gemma is not this notorious Contessa.”
Her ladyship made a gesture of impatience, saying—“I have no object in deceiving you, Charles. I merely think it right that you should be made aware of the truth, hideous as it is.”
“But is it the truth?” he demanded fiercely. “There is absolutely no proof. I certainly never knew her address in Florence, but at Livorno she lived in a little flat on the Passeggio. If she were the Contessa, she would certainly have lived in her own beautiful villa at Ardenza, only a mile away.”
“She may have let it for the season,” his hostess quickly observed.