Oddly enough, it was to Genevieve Mallory that Macdonald went for consolation when he learned that Sheba had left town. He had always found it very pleasant to drop in for a chat with her, and she saw to it that he met the same friendly welcome now that a rival had annexed his scalp to her slender waist. For Mrs. Mallory did not concede defeat. If the Irish girl could be eliminated, she believed she would yet win.
His hostess laced her fingers behind her beautiful, tawny head, quite well aware that the attitude set off the perfect modeling of the soft, supple body. She looked up at him with a mocking little smile.
"Rumor says that she has run away, my lord. Is it true?"
"Yes. Slipped away on the stage this morning."
"That's a good sign. She was afraid to stay."
It was a part of the fiction between them that Mrs. Mallory was to give him the benefit of her advice in his wooing of her rival. She seemed to take it for granted that he would at last marry Sheba after wearing away the rigid Puritanism of her resentment.
Macdonald had never liked her so well as now. Her point of view was so sane, so reasonable. It asked for no impossible virtues in a man. There was something restful in her genial, derisive understanding of him. She had a silent divination of his moods and ministered indolently to them.
"Do you think so? Ought I to follow her?" he asked.
She showed a row of perfect teeth in a low ripple of amusement. The situation at least was piquant, even though it was at her expense.
"No. Give the girl time. Catch her impulse on the rebound. She'll be bored to death at Katma and she will come back docile."