THE SPECIAL TYPE
your eyes open. What I want to be sure of, liking her as I do, is that she fully understands."
He had been moving about my place with his hands in his pockets, and at this he stopped short. "How much do you like her?"
"Oh, ten times more than she likes me; so that needn't trouble you. Does she understand that it can be only to help somebody else?"
"Why, my dear chap, she's as sharp as a steam-whistle."
"So that she also already knows who the other person is?"
He took a turn again, then brought out, "There's no other person for her but me. Of course, as yet, there are things one doesn't say; I haven't set straight to work to dot all my i's, and the beauty of her, as she's really charming—and would be charming in any relation—is just exactly that I don't expect to have to. We'll work it out all right, I think, so that what I most wanted just to make sure of from you was what you've been good enough to tell me. I mean that you don't object—for yourself."
I could with philosophic mirth allay that scruple, but what I couldn't do was to let him see what really most worried me. It stuck, as they say, in my crop that a woman like—yes, when all was said and done—Alice Dundene should simply minister to the convenience of a woman like Rose Cavenham. "But there's one thing more." This was as far as I could go. "I may take from you then that she not only knows it's for your divorce and remarriage, but can fit the shoe on the very person?"
He waited a moment. "Well, you may take from me that I find her no more of a fool than, as I seem to see, many other fellows have found her."
I too was silent a little, but with a superior sense of being able to think it all out further than he. "She's magnificent!"
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