their square and rather dirty nails
and the large turquoise that adorned one of them. Cogitation,
self-control and fierce determination were in her gaze; then it veiled
itself again in gentleness and, with a steady and insistent patience,
she said: "You are astray, my friend, much astray, and very ignorant.
Look with me at fact, and then say, if you can, that we can make it
known that it is untrue. You are known to be in love with Karen; you are
known to have asked me for her hand. Karen makes a marriage that is
unhappy; it is known that she is not happy with her husband. Did you not
yourself see that all was not well with them? It has been known for
long. You arrive in London; Karen sees you again; next day she flies
from Mr. Jardine and takes refuge with you at your lodgings. Yes, you
will say, but your mother, your sisters, too, were there. Yes, the world
will answer, and she came to me to wait till they were gone and you free
to join her. In a fortnight's time she seizes a pretext for leaving
me--I speak of what the world will say Franz--and meets you. Will the
world, will Karen's husband, believe that it was by chance? She is found
hidden with you here, those who see you come to me; it is so I find you,
and she is here bearing your name. Come, my friend, it is no question of
saving Karen from smirches; the world will say that it is your duty as
an honourable man to marry Karen. Better that she should be known as
your wife than as your abandoned mistress. So speaks the world, Franz.
And though we know that it speaks falsely we have no power to undeceive
it. But now, mark me, my friend; I have no wish to undeceive it. I do
not see the story, told even in these terms, as disgraceful; I do not
see my Karen smirched. I am not one who weighs the human heart and its
needs in the measures of convention. Bravely and in truth, Karen frees
herself. So be it. You say that she does not love you. I say, Franz, how
do you know that? I say that if she does not love you yet, she will love
you; and I add, Franz, for the full ease of your conscience, that if
Karen, when she is free, does not wish to marry you, then--it is very
simple--she remains with me and does not marry. But what I ask of you
now is bravery and discretion, for our Karen's sake. She must be freed;
in your heart you know that it is well that Karen should be freed. In
your heart you know that Karen must not be bound till death to this man
she loathes and dreads and wil