“Well, let’s risk it, shall we?”
“Haven’t you got any compassion for me?”
“One can’t pity anyone who amuses one as much as you amuse me,” I answered.
A faint spot of colour appeared on Louise’s pale cheeks and though she smiled still her eyes were hard and angry.
“Iris shall marry in a month’s time,” she said, “and if anything happens to me I hope you and she will be able to forgive yourselves.”
Louise was as good as her word.
A date was fixed, a trousseau of great magnificence was ordered, and invitations were issued.
Iris and the very good lad were radiant.
On the wedding-day, at ten o’clock in the morning, Louise, that devilish woman, had one of her heart attacks-and died.
She died gently forgiving Iris for having killed her.