With the intonation she gives these words, they sound more like a menace than a politeness.
"When you will condescend to explain yourself, I may possibly be able to answer you, Miss Fleming." (How I must have disliked this girl all my life, to flare up so heartily at a moment's notice!)
"You are rather slow of comprehension to-night! I allude, of course, to your engagement with Paul Vasher."
A smile parts my lips as I listen to her. How sweet those words sound, spoken even by an enemy's tongue! For a moment I forget the woman by my side, and that she waits my answer; I am looking at a happy, far-away picture, that makes my eyes ache with longing; only in dreamland does it exist, in reality it never will. . . .
"And it is so," says a low, breathless voice by my side. "You sit there smiling; you dare to mock me with your gladness. . . ."
Her words come hurrying out as though past her control. For the second time in her life, Silvia drops the mask before me; for the second time in my life I see her as she is.
"Let me tell you this, Helen Adair, that you will never be Paul Vasher's wife, never!"
"I have not aspired to that honour," I answer, quietly; "have you? I should not, were I you!"
"You have such faith in your powers of keeping him?" she asks, scoffingly.
"I have much faith in the power of the woman he loves. Pray, do not put yourself out!" I say, looking away from her pale face to the pearly sea beyond; we need not quarrel over Paul Vasher, since he is neither yours nor mine."
"Not yours?" she repeats, staring at me, while a swift surprise dashes all the triumphant scorn out of her face, "whose is he then?"
"Some stranger's."
