And you, pray what
may you give him? Yourself? A prodigious waste! But your father's
yellow--"
"Don't go on, or I shall refuse to listen. It is wrong of you." So
Frona made her cease, and then, with bold inconsistency, "And what
may the woman Lucile give him?"
"Some few wild moments," was the prompt response; "a burning burst of
happiness, and the regrets of hell--which latter he deserves, as do
I. So the balance is maintained, and all is well."
"But--but--"
"For there is a devil in him," she held on, "a most alluring devil,
which delights me, on my soul it does, and which, pray God, Frona,
you may never know. For you have no devil; mine matches his and
mates. I am free to confess that the whole thing is only an
attraction. There is nothing permanent about him, nor about me. And
there's the beauty, the balance is preserved."
Frona lay back in her chair and lazily regarded her visitor, Lucile
waited for her to speak. It was very quiet.
"Well?" Lucile at last demanded, in a low, curious tone, at the same
time rising to slip into her parka.
"Nothing. I was only waiting."
"I am done."
"Then let me say that I do not understand you," Frona summed up,
coldly. "I cannot somehow just catch your motive. There is a flat
ring to what you have said. However, of this I am sure: for some
unaccountable reason you have been untrue to yourself to-day.
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