The two women were alone in the morning-room of Lady Carey's house in Pont Street. Lucille was walking restlessly up and down twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. Lady Carey was watching her, more composed, to all outward appearance, but with closely compressed lips, and boding gleam in her eyes.
"I think," Lady Carey said, "that you had better see him."
"Well, for one thing he will not understand your refusal. He may be suspicious."
"What does it matter? I have finished with him. I have done all that I pledged myself to. What more can be expected of me? I do not wish to see him again."
"At least," she said, "I think that the poor man has a right to receive his congé from you. You cannot break with him without a word of explanation. Perhaps--you may not find it so easy as it seems."
"You are in a curious mood, my dear Lucille. What I mean is obvious enough. Brott is a strong man and a determined man. I do not think that he will enjoy being made a fool of."
"At any rate," she said, "I shall not see him. I have quite made up my mind about that."
"And why not, Countess?" a deep voice asked from the threshold. "What have I done? May I not at least know my fault?"
Lady Carey rose and moved towards the door.
"You shall have it out between yourselves," she declared, looking up, and nodding at Brott as she passed. "Don't fight!"
The cry was imperative, but Lady Carey had gone. Mr. Brott closed the door behind him and confronted Lucille. A brilliant spot of colour flared in her pale cheeks.
"But this is a trap!" she exclaimed. "Who sent for you? Why did you come?"
His eyes were full of passionate remonstrance. She looked nervously from him towards the door. He intercepted her glance.
"What have I done?" he asked fiercely. "What have I failed to do? Why do you look as though I had forced myself upon you? Haven't I the right? Don't you wish to see me?"
In Brott's face and tone was all the passionate strenuousness of a great crisis. Lucille felt suddenly helpless before the directness of his gaze, his storm of questions. In all their former intercourse it had been she who by virtue of her sex and his blind love for her had kept the upper hand. And now the position was changed. All sorts of feeble explanations, of appeals to him, occurred to her dimly, only to be rejected by reason of their ridiculous inadequacy. She was silent-abjectly silent.