You too shall hear it."
"Thank you," she said. "I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe
in what you call freedom for the people. I have discovered in
America how uncomfortable a people's country can be."
"Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess
Radantz ... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!"
"It is true, my friend," she answered. "But the American in
question was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he
was no more a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant
woman, and he was a millionaire."
"And you, after his death, without necessity--went to bury yourself
in his country."
"Why not?"
"I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me,"
he said slowly.
"Dear me--how uncomfortable!"
"Before you--reappeared," he said, "I had learnt, yes I had learnt
to do without you. I had sealed up the one chapter of my life
which had in it anything to do with sentiment. Your coming has
altered all that. You have disturbed the focus of my ambitions.
Lucille! I have loved you for more than half a lifetime. Isn't it
time I had my reward?"
He took a quick step towards her. In his tone was the ring of
mastery, the light in his eyes was compelling. She shrank back,
but he seized one of her hands. It lay between his, a cold dead
thing.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112