She laughed—that strange hollow laugh which her lover knew so well.
“I came to call on you,” she answered. The door was closed, and they were alone together.
“And you entered my room to pry into my private papers?” he said, his blood rising. “What’s that you have in your hand?”
She set her lips firmly. She was no longer the sweet, almost childlike girl, but a hard-faced, desperate woman.
“A paper I want,” she boldly answered, at the same moment doubling the envelope in half, and crushing it in her palm.
“Then you have at last become so bold that you actually have the audacity to enter one’s house and steal whatever you think proper?” he cried, in a towering passion. “Fortunately, I’ve returned in time to frustrate your latest bit of infernal ingenuity.”
“My action is but fair, now that we are enemies,” she answered with feigned indignation. “If you could, you’d ruin me; therefore I’m entirely at liberty to return the same compliment.”
“I thought you were already ruined,” the Count exclaimed. “Your reputation, at any rate, cannot be rendered blacker than it is.”
“That’s the truth, no doubt.” She laughed with an air of gaiety. “But one who makes secret diplomacy a profession, must care nothing for the good will of the world outside the diplomatic circle.”
“Those who make love their profession, should be constant, if they would achieve success,” he retorted bitterly.