Wingrave had been her constant
attendant for months. He had seen her surrounded by men, all anxious
to secure a smile from her; he had seen her play the great lady in her
own house, and she played it very well. She knew that she was a past
mistress in the arts which fascinate his sex, she understood the quiet
speeches, the moods, every trick of the gamester in emotions, from the
fluttering of eyelids to the unchaining of the passions. And he had
loved her. Underneath it all, he must love her now. She was determined
that he should tell her so. It was genuine excitement which throbbed
in her pulses, a genuine color which burned in her cheeks.
"The conditions?" he repeated. "You believe, then, that I mean to make
conditions?"
She raised her eyes to his, eloquent eyes she knew, and looked at him.
The mask was still there--but he had moved a little nearer to her.
"I do not know," she said softly. "You must tell me."
There was a moment's silence. She had scarcely given herself credit
for such capacity for emotion. He was on his feet. Surely the mask
must go now! And then--she felt that it must be a nightmare. It was
incredible! He had struck a match and was calmly lighting a cigarette.
"One," he said coolly, "is that Mademoiselle Violet employs no more
amateur assassins to make clumsy attempts upon my life."
She sat in her place rigid--half frozen with a cold, numbing fear. He
had sent for her, then, only to mock her.
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