THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
the couple critically. “Your wife’s mask,” she said, “is even better than yours.”
“What does she mean?” whispered Jenny. “Oh, send her away!”
“Serpent,” was all George could say, “crawl from our Eden, ere you poison with your venom its fairest denizen.”
La Gambogi rose. “Even my pride,” she cried passionately, “knows certain bounds. I have been forbearing, but even in my zeal for friendship I will not be called ‘serpent.’ I will indeed begone from this rude place. Yet, ere I go, there is a boon I will deign to beg. Show me, oh show me but once again, the dear face I have so often caressed, the lips that were dear to me!”
George started back.
“What does she mean?” whispered Jenny.
“In memory of our old friendship,” continued La Gambogi, “grant me this piteous favour. Show me your own face but for one instant, and I vow I will never again remind you that I live. Intercede for me, little bride. Bid him unmask for me. You have more authority over him than I. Doff his mask with your own uxorious fingers.”
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