“Perhaps you are right,” was the curt answer.
Moreno indulged in a quiet inward chuckle. If she had known that Isobel Clandon was established so close to her lover, that through his adroit manipulation of affairs they were meeting every day, her hatred must have expressed itself more heartily.
Valerie Delmonte, under the wing of the unsuspecting Duchess, was now within the Palace.
She had only once before looked upon a scene approaching this, and it had been much less brilliant.
Once, early in their married life, her husband had taken her to one of the President’s receptions in Paris. It was easy, in his position, to secure the entrée for himself and wife.
She remembered that evening well. Never had she felt more humiliated. Half a dozen times kind old Monsieur Varenne had introduced her to some of his acquaintances. There was a formal bow interchanged, and nothing beyond; one and all they had sheered off. Even in a republican and democratic country, these purse-proud citizens would have nothing to do with the girl who had come from the music halls.
She recalled how, when she had reached home that night, she had burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and her kindly, elderly husband had tried to comfort her.
“Calm thyself, ma chérie, we will not go to these hateful places again. We will lead our own life.”
To-night, how different. A Court, one of the oldest in Europe, reflecting that atmosphere of pomp and state associated with long descended Royalty. The kindly young King, his British-born Queen, chatting graciously with their favoured guests. Men in resplendent uniforms and orders, great ladies of the highest Spanish nobility, what a contrast to the homely reception of the President in those far-off days!
Then she had been escorted by a very wealthy but somewhat shady financier, whose influence had not been sufficient to enable her to scale the social heights to which she had aspired.