"Do you hear? I say: _You_ would break his heart. He would be only capable
of loving straight to the end. The kind of love any other woman would die
for--but--you--You are Carmen."
At all events, not _she_, nor any other woman, shall ever see what I am or
am not. My heart is not for them to peck at. So I said, calmly:
"Carmen was stabbed!"
"And serve her right! Fascinating, fiendish demon!" Then she laughed, her
mood changing.
"Did you see Charlie?" she said.
"We breakfasted together."
"Cheerful person, isn't he?"
"No," I said. "He looked cross and ill."
"Ill!" she said, with a shade of anxiety. "Oh, you only mean dyspeptic."
"Perhaps."
"Well, he always does when he comes from Paris. If you could go into his
room and see the row of photographs on his mantelpiece, you might guess
why."
"Pictures of 'Sole Dieppoise' and 'Poulet à la Victoria aux Truffes,' no
doubt," I hazarded.
She doubled up with laughter. "Yes, just that," she said. "Well, he adores
me in his way, and will bring me a new Cartier ring to make up for it--you
will see at luncheon."
"He is a perfect husband, then."
"About the same as you will find Christopher. Only Christopher will start
by being an exquisite lover. There is nothing he does not know, and
Charlie has not an idea of that part. Heavens!--the dulness of my
honeymoon!"
"Mrs. Carruthers said all honeymoons were only another parallel to going
to the dentist or being photographed. Necessary evils to be got through
for the sake of the results."
"The results!"
"Yes, the nice house and the jewels and the other things."
"Oh! Yes, I suppose she was right, but if one had married Robert one would
have had both." She did not say both what--but oh, I knew!
"You think Mr. Carruthers will make a fair husband, then?" I asked.
"You will never really know Christopher. I have been acquainted with him
for years. You will never feel he would tell you the whole truth about
anything. He is an epicure, and an analyst of sensations. I don't know if
he has any gods--he does not believe in them if he has; he believes in no
one, and nothing, but perhaps himself. He is violently in love with you
for the moment, and he wants to marry you, because he cannot obtain you on
any other terms."
"You are flattering," I said, rather hurt.
"I am truthful. You will probably have a delightful time with him, and
keep him devoted to you for years, because you are not in love with him;
and he will take good care you do not look at any one else. I can imagine
if one were in love with Christopher he would break one's heart, as he has
broken poor Alicia Verney's."
"Oh, but how silly! People don't have broken hearts now; you are talking
like out of a book, dear Lady Ver."
"There are a few cases of broken hearts, but they are not for book
reasons--of death and tragedy, etc.--they are because we cannot have what
we want, or keep what we have--" and she sighed.
We did not speak for a few minutes, then she said, quite gayly:
"You have made my head better; your touch is extraordinary; in spite of
all, I like you, snake-girl. You are not found on every gooseberry-bush."
We kissed lightly, and I left her and went to my room.
Yes, the best thing I can do is to marry Christopher. I care for him so
little that the lady in Paris won't matter to me, even if she is like Sir
Charles's "Poulet à la Victoria aux Truffes." He is such a gentleman, he
will at least be kind to me and refined and considerate--and the
Carruthers emeralds are divine, and just my stones. I shall have them
reset by Cartier. The lace, too, will suit me, and the sables, and I shall
have the suite that Mrs. Carruthers used at Branches done up with pale,
pale green, and burn all the early Victorians! And no doubt existence
will be full of triumphs and pleasure.