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Page 54
Constance put her hand on her arm gently to restrain her, knowing
that such indignation was the first sign that she had struck at the
core of truth in her interpretation.
"My dear," she urged, "I'm only telling you the truth, for your own
sake, and not to take advantage of you as Madame Cassandra is doing.
Please--remember that the best evidence of your normal condition is
just what I find, that absence of love would be abnormal. My dear,
you are what the psychologists call a consciously frigid,
unconsciously passionate woman. Consciously you reject this Davies;
unconsciously you accept him. And it is the more dangerous, although
you do not know it, because some one else is watching. It was not
one of his friends who told your husband--"
Mrs. Caswell had paled. "Is--is there a--detective?" she faltered.
Constance nodded.
Mildred had collapsed completely. She was sobbing in a chair, her
head bowed in her hands, her little lace handkerchief soaked. "What
shall I do? What shall I do?"
There was a sudden tap at the door.
"Quick--in there," whispered Constance, shoving her through the
portieres into the drawing room.
It was Forest Caswell.
For a moment Constance stood irresolute, wondering just how to meet
him, then she said, "Good evening, Mr. Caswell. I hope you will
pardon me for asking you to call on me, but, as you know, I've come
to know your wife--perhaps better than you do."
"Not better," he corrected, seeming to see that it was directness
that she was aiming at. "It is bad enough to get mixed up badly in
Wall Street, but what would you yourself say--you are a business
woman--what would you say about getting into the clutches of a--a
dream doctor--and worse?"
He had put Constance on the defensive in a sentence.
"Don't you ever dream?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her a moment as if doubting even her mentality.
"Lord," he exclaimed in disgust, "you, too, defend it?"
"But, don't you dream?" she persisted.
"Why, of course I dream," he answered somewhat petulantly. "What of
it? I don't guide my actions by it."
"Do you ever dream of Mildred?" she asked.
"Sometimes," he admitted reluctantly.
"Ever of other--er--people?" she pursued.
"Yes," he replied, "sometimes of other people. But what has that to
do with it? I cannot help my dreams. My conduct I can help and I do
help."
Constance had not expected him to be frank to the extent of taking
her into his confidence. Still, she felt that he had told her just
enough. She discerned a vague sense of jealousy in his tone which
told her more than words that whatever he might have said or done to
Mildred he resented, unconsciously, the manner in which she had
striven to gain sympathy outside.
"Fortunately he knows nothing of the new theories," she said to
herself.
"Mrs. Dunlap," he resumed, "since you have been frank with me, I
must be equally frank with you. I think you are far too sensible a
woman not to understand in just what a peculiar position my wife has
placed me."
He had taken out of his pocket a few sheets of closely typewritten
tissue paper. He did not look at them. Evidently he knew the
contents by heart. Constance did not need to be told that this was a
sheaf of the daily reports of the agency for which Drummond worked.
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