The Inner Shrine | Page 4

seen me this evening--"
"Listen to me, Diane; don't joke. This is no time for that."

"Joke! I never felt less like joking in my life, and--"
She broke off with a little hysterical gasp, so that Mrs. Eveleth got
another chance.
"I know you don't feel like joking, and still less do I. There's something
wrong."
"Is there? What?" Diane made an effort to recover herself. "I hope it
isn't indiscreet to ask, because I need the bracing effect of a little
scandal."
"Isn't it for you to tell me? You're concealing something of which--"
"Oh, petite mère, is that quite honest? First, you say there's something
wrong; and then, when I'm all agog to hear it, you saddle me with the
secret. That's what you call in English a sell, isn't it? A sell! What a
funny little word! I often wonder who invents the slang. Parrots pass it
along, of course, but it must take some cleverness to start it. And isn't it
curious," she went on, breathlessly, "how a new bit of slang always fills
a vacant place in the language? The minute you hear it you know it's
what you've always wanted. I suppose the reason we're obliged to use
the current phrase is because it expresses the current need. When the
hour passes, the need passes with it, and something new must be coined
to meet the new situation. I should think a most interesting book might
be written on the Psychology of Slang, and if I wasn't so busy with
other things--"
"Diane, I entreat you to answer me. Where is George?"
"Why, I must have forgotten to tell you that he went to the Jockey Club
with Monsieur de Melcourt--"
"You did tell me so; but that isn't all. Has he gone anywhere else?"
"How should I know, petite mère? Where should he go but come
home?"

"Has he gone to fight a duel?"
The question surprised Diane into partially dropping her mask. For an
instant she was puzzled for an answer.
"Men who fight duels," she said, at last, "don't generally tell their wives
beforehand."
"But did George tell you?"
Again Diane hesitated before speaking.
"What a queer question!" was all she could find to say.
"It's a question I have a right to ask."
"But have I a right to answer?"
"If you don't answer, you leave me to infer that he has."
"Of course I can't keep you from inferring, but isn't that what they call
meeting trouble half-way?"
"I must meet trouble as it comes to me."
"But not before it comes. That's my point."
"It has come. It's here. I'm sure of it. He's gone to fight. You know it.
You've sent him. Oh, Diane, if he comes to harm his blood will be on
your head."
Diane shrugged her shoulders, and took another sandwich.
"I don't see that. In the first place, it's quite unlikely there'll be any
blood at all--or more than a very little. One of the things I admire in
men--our men, especially--is the maximum of courage with which they
avenge their honor, coupled with the minimum of damage they work in
doing it. It must require a great deal of skill. I know I should never
have the nerve for it. I should kill my man every time he didn't kill me.

But they hardly ever do."
"How can you say that? Wasn't Monsieur de Cretteville killed? And
Monsieur Lalanne?"
"That makes two cases. I implied that it happens sometimes--generally
by inadvertence. But it isn't likely to do so in this instance--at least not
to George. He's an excellent shot--and I believe it was to be pistols."
"Then it's true! Oh, my God, I know I shall lose him!"
Mrs. Eveleth flung her cane to the floor and dropped into a seat, leaning
on the table and covering her face with her hands. For a minute she
moaned harshly, but when she looked up her eyes were tearless.
"And this is my reward," she cried, "for the kindness I've shown you!
After all, you are nothing but a wanton."
Diane kept her self-control, but she grew pale.
"That's odd," was all she permitted herself to say, delicately flicking the
crumbs from her fingertips; "because it was to prove the contrary that
George called Monsieur de Bienville out."
"Bienville! You've stooped to _him?_"
"Did I say so?" Diane asked, with a sudden significant lifting of the
head.
"There's no need to say so. There must have been something--"
"There was something--something Monsieur de Bienville invented."
"Wasn't it a pity for him to go to the trouble of invention--?"
"When he could have found so much that was true," Diane finished,
with dangerous quietness. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"
"You have no right