The dangers of the social jungle develop remarkable perceptions in deer and bird of paradise, but these defensive instincts are not always proof against the craft of the cat tribe. If they were, the cat tribe would long since have ceased to exist as a species. Other things being equal, the stalker of prey has all the advantage. Nina knew that Jane knew that she was lying. So, to gain her point, she was prepared if necessary to use the simple expedient of telling the truth .
Nina was leaning forward, her chin in her hand, her gaze on the rug.
“You’ve heard, I suppose, this story people are telling about Phil and me,” she said in a lower tone.
“No,” said Jane in tones of curiosity. “Is it something very dreadful?”
“I’m afraid it is—at least people seem to think it so. It began with an accident to my motor and ended at a Parlor Heater.”
“A Parlor Heater! Do go on, Nina. I’m immensely interested.”
“Phil and I, on the way home from Egerton’s party, you remember? He went home in my motor. I know people thought it awfully rude of us as the other motors were so crowded—but it just happened so and we started home alone—after all the others had gone. We ran out[271] of oil and had to put up for the night where we could. Unfortunate wasn’t it? We were miles from nowhere and not a gallon of gasoline in sight. The farmer seemed to think we were suspicious characters, but he let us in at last to sit beside his stove until morning. I’m sure he was peeping over the balusters most of the time to be sure we didn’t make off with the family Bible.” Nina laughed at the recollection, a little more loudly than seemed necessary .
“Phil was very sweet about it all. He was so afraid of compromising me, poor fellow. I really felt very sorry for him. The farmer wouldn’t volunteer to help us, so Phil wanted to trudge the five miles through the snow to get the oil. But I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t, Jane. It was frightfully lonely there. The chauffeur was drunk and I was afraid.”
“Y—you were quite right,” said Jane in a suppressed tone.
“We sat all night huddled in our furs on opposite sides of that dreadful parlor stove. I don’t think I can ever forget it. I’ve never been so miserable in my life—never! We spoke to each other in monosyllables for a while and at last—er—I went to sleep in disgust. I woke up with a frightful pain in my back from that dreadful chair. What a night! And to think that it was for this—this, that about! It’s maddening, Jane. If we only had given them a little flame, just a tiny one—for all this smoke! Poor Phil! He was terribly provoked about it this morning. He wants to kill that wretched chauffeur, for of course the whole story came from him. You know, Jane, I discharged him as soon as we got back to town, and this was his revenge. Sweet, wasn’t it? It seems as if one[272] was very much at the mercy of one’s mechanician. They’re servants, of course, but you can never get them to think that they are. I haven’t dared tell father. I don’t know what he would do about it. I’m afraid——”
Jane Loring had risen and was looking out of the window into the gathering dusk.
“What’s the use, Nina?” she asked quietly.
“The use of what?”
“Telling me all this. I understand, I think.”
“I hope you do,” said Nina quickly. “I wanted you to. That’s why I told you.”
She got up and took a few rapid paces forward.
“Jane!” she cried suddenly. “What do you mean? That I—you believe—? Oh, how could you?”