“How do you know?”
“I was present when he begged of her to tell the truth. But she only laughed, declaring her disinclination to implicate herself by so doing. That woman will let you sacrifice your life rather than tell the truth.”
“Are you certain of this? Are you positive there is no mistake, Willoughby?”
“None. I heard her with my own ears. She is awaiting eagerly your downfall.”
Lolita’s hands clenched themselves, her pale lips moved but no sound came from them. The small clock chimed ten, and as it did so she crossed the room and drew down the blind. There was, I supposed, no further necessity for the signal of the bowl of dahlias.
Ah! how crooked are the paths of life; how few the sweets; how bitter the gall! the wretched, like the daisy of the field, neglected live, nor feel the withering blast of wavering fortune. The great alone are noted, and though they weather long the pitiless storm, are struck at length and down hurled to destruction. Greatness is a dream! This world’s a dream—we wander and we know not whither.
“Are you sure that Marigold’s friendship is only assumed?” she inquired at length.
“Quite. You told me that Keene was your enemy, yet from what I have seen I believe him to be rather your friend.”
“Friend! No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s impossible. He cannot be my friend. You do not know all the past.”
“How long ago did you know him?” I inquired. “In the days before George’s marriage. We were acquainted then,” was her faint answer.