“Ah, you will drive me to desperation!” she cried, her dark eyes glaring at him angrily. “Give me the letter and go—go! Bracondale may be back now—at any moment!”
“I assure you I fear neither Bracondale nor you—nor even the result of your confession. And I feel quite loath to-night to leave you; you look so extremely charming in that pretty gown.”
“Don’t be foolish. At least have some consideration for me—for my future.”
“It is my own future I am thinking of,” he declared harshly. “Your future is assured, so long as you play the game with Bracondale. If you act indiscreetly, and give way to silly moods, then you will only have yourself to blame for your ruin. Besides,” he added, with his lip curling slightly, “you have the child to consider. What’s her name?”
“Her name is of no matter to you,” was Jean’s hot response. “She is mine, not yours.”
“I’m rather glad of that,” he responded. “But I don’t think this is really a fit opportunity to waste time in mutual recrimination.”
“No. Go, I tell you. If you remain longer, it will be dangerous—dangerous for us both.”
He looked at the clock, and then his gaze wandered to the closed jewel-case upon the Louis Quinze table. The small room, closed as it was, was filled with the perfume of the great bunch of flowers in the long Chinese vase—a perfume that seemed almost overpowering.
“But I tell you I see no danger,” was his careless reply, for it seemed his object to taunt her. He had already hinted at a continued tax upon her resources if she desired him to keep his lips sealed, and she, on her part, realising his true character, clearly foresaw that all her efforts could have but one result. To satisfy his demands would be impossible.