“And would you care?” he demanded.
“Why, of course I would,” she responded. “Aren’t we friends?”
He had that same steady look in his eyes as he asked: “Are we?”
It was a gaze she could not bring herself to meet. Assuredly, she groaned, she was not of the stuff from which the successful adventuress was made.
“Of course,” she murmured in reply. “But what are you going to do?”
“I’ve made my plans,” he told her. “I’ve been very careful. I’ve given my confidence to two people only, both of whom I trust absolutely—Monty Vaughan and”—he looked keenly at her,—“and you. I shan’t be caught. I won’t give in, and I’ll stop at nothing, no matter what it costs, or whom it hurts. I’ve got to win.”
It seemed to him she made an ejaculation of distress. “What is it?” he cried.
“Nothing much,” she said nervously, “it’s the heat, I suppose. That’s why I wouldn’t dance, you know. Won’t you take me into the garden and we’ll look at the moon—it’s the same moon,” she said, with a desperate air of trying to conceal from him her agitation, “that shines in Paris. It’s gorgeous,” she added, looking across the room where no moon was.
“Surely,” he said. “It is rather stuffy indoors on a night like this.” He moved leisurely over to the French windows. But she called him back. She was not yet keyed up to this supreme act of treachery.
“No, no,” she called again, “don’t let’s go, after all.”