Chapter Nineteen.
It was a long time before Moreno spoke. It was evident that, in her present mood, Violet Hargrave was perfectly prepared to be made love to. It was not the first time it had occurred to him that this woman of mixed nationality like himself was more than usually attracted by him.
But although he was one of the vainest men living in certain respects, notably in the high estimate in which he always held his own capacity and mental qualities, still in other matters he was fairly modest. Every man can get some woman to fall in love with him, or, at any rate, to profess affection. Some day he would come across a woman whom he could impress sufficiently to justify him in asking her to marry him. For the time would come when, like other men, even of the most roving disposition, he would want to say good-bye to adventure and settle down quietly.
As regards his personal appearance, he was quite a just and dispassionate critic. He could look in the glass and sum up the general verdict that would be passed by the opposite sex. In appearance he was rather short and squat. His features, somewhat irregular, were redeemed from plainness by a pair of very brilliant dark eyes, and a perfect set of strong white teeth.
Still, he had not the makings of a Don Juan in him; he was not the sort of man whose path was likely to be strewn with conquests; not the type of man, like Guy Rossett, for instance, on whom most women looked with a kindly eye, even on their first acquaintance.
Under ordinary circumstances, Violet’s attitude could hardly be misinterpreted. The misty eyes raised appealingly to his, the soft inflections in her voice said as plainly as words could speak that here was a woman fully ready to respond at the first hint from him.
But he was very cautious; he felt he must proceed warily. He must never forget that this woman had been, more or less, an adventuress from her girlhood, the associate of desperate and callous men, who hesitated at nothing in the attainment of their objects. Not so very long ago, she had exulted in the prospect of obtaining a terrible revenge, through others, on the man she had once professed to love.
Why had she turned, so suddenly, as it seemed, from this vengeance, had almost said that she no longer desired revenge? In an ordinary woman, the explanation would have been simple. Rossett now no longer aroused her love or hate because she had found a new lover in Moreno himself.
Always severe to himself in these purely personal matters, he asked himself the candid question if a woman so attractive as she undoubtedly was could turn from a man of Rossett’s physical advantages to himself?