Free A Prologue To Love by Taylor Caldwell Page A

hands in her lap and looked down at them. Now he could not see her face in the dimness. She said, “My bank account and my investments are still intact, what there is of them. I had the bill for this bracelet sent to your office, John, in Boston.”
     
    He was enraged. “And when I deduct the cost from the amount ‘due’ you this year, what will you have left? Twelve thousand dollars for twelve months — ”
     
    “Oh no,” she said gently. “Don’t you remember? You gave me this as my birthday present.”
     
    “You must think I’m an idiot!” he said violently, walking far away from her and looking back over his shoulder at her. The old and awful terror was on him again, the old dry sickness in the throat. “I can’t afford such things, Cynthia. It’s outrageous; it isn’t in the contract.”
     
    “Contract?” she repeated.
     
    “Yes, contract!” he shouted. “The trust is one thing. But this is outrageous. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? You’ll buy what you need thriftily, out of income. And not a penny more!”
     
    She lifted her arm and looked at the bracelet. “It’s really beautiful,” she said. “I always wanted it.” Then she stood up.
     
    John said with more violence, “Are you accustomed to accepting such things — from men? Do you know there is a name for a woman like that?”
     
    “I don’t accept ‘things — from men’,” said Cynthia quietly. “I’ve never accepted anything, John, except flowers, or a pair of gloves, or some bibelot, as a gift from any of the gentlemen I know. A woman doesn’t accept jewelry or money from men she doesn’t love.”
     
    “And I suppose the men you — you — ” He could not finish; he felt as if he were choking.
     
    But the maid came in then to light the candles and the lamps and Cynthia watched her, as if every movement were important. The maid kept her head down but smirked under her nose; she could smell the violence and anger in the room. She lingered as long as possible. She wanted to hear more, but neither spoke until she had gone and softly closed the door behind her. Then Cynthia removed the bracelet from her arm and put it on the nearest table. “It doesn’t belong to me any longer,” she said in a low voice. “You didn’t give it to me.”
     
    Then she added brightly, “Oh, I see some of our guests are coming. A carriage is drawing up outside.” She touched the petit-point bell panel that hung near the fire. She rustled to the door, her face gleaming with smiles, and John hastily walked to the table and took the bracelet and put it in his pocket. He would return it tomorrow to the jeweler.
     
    Cynthia’s parties were noted for gaiety and charm and glitter. All who came were connoisseurs of fine food and wines, of art, of music, of sophisticated conversation. They bored John Ames to death; he endured them sullenly because at Cynthia’s parties he frequently found men who could be profitable to him. It never occurred to him that Cynthia deftly arranged this. On the contrary, he often wondered why men of great affairs should be attracted to such frivolous gatherings.
     
    He looked about him tonight. The room was alive with gems of many colors, Paris gowns of every hue, and a dozen pretty feminine faces. The men moved among these lovely creatures like sleek black seals in shining water. And everyone laughed and talked rapidly. It was very unlike most Boston parties John had attended. It reminded him of Paris, for no one talked of business, no group of men huddled together in the American manner, smoking and drinking privately and unaware of the women, impatient if one intruded. Cynthia’s parties were distinguished for a Continental air, where women were cherished, their new gowns admired, and compliments made to them gallantly; where men discussed the newest additions to the Museum or talked easily of friends in London and Budapest and San Francisco and Berlin, and women chatted of Worth, the British