“You are going?” she asked, her fingers on the necklace, and her eyes avoiding mine.
“I have the honor,” said I, “to enjoy the friendship of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.”
“And that forbids you to enjoy mine?”
I bowed assent to her inference. She sat still at the table, her chin on her hands. I was about to leave her, when it struck me all in a moment that leaving her was not exactly the best thing to do, although it might be much the easiest. I arrested my steps.
“Well,” she asked, “is not our acquaintance ended?”
And she suddenly opened her hands and hid her face in them. It was a strange conclusion to a speech so coldly and distantly begun.
“For God’s sake, don’t go!” said I, bending a little across the table toward her.
“What’s it to you? What’s it to anybody?” came from between her fingers.
“Your mother——” I began.
She dropped her hands from her face, and laughed. It was a laugh the like of which I hope not to hear again. Then she broke out:
“Why wouldn’t she have me in the house? Why did she run away? Am I unfit to touch her?”
“If she were wrong, you’re doing your best to make her right.”
“If everybody thinks one wicked, one may as well be wicked, and—and live in peace.”
“And get diamonds?” I added, “Weren’t you wicked?”
