A Prologue To Love by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online

There was a tiny malice in her tone, and she tilted her head quizzically.
     
    “I’m not too decrepit, even if I am forty-five,” he answered, trying to retain her hand. But she deftly removed it and patted her curls, continuing to look at him. She said thoughtfully, “Forty-five! I must admit you are well preserved.” She smiled again. “Do sit down. Have you had sherry? Dreadful thing, sherry, isn’t it? I prefer brandy.” She sat down with a silvery rustle and clasped her hands in her lap. One of her fingers bore a large diamond set in emeralds, and a bracelet of emeralds circled her slim wrist.
     
    She lifted her beautifully formed arm and pulled at the bell rope, and when the maid entered she ordered brandy. John Ames watched her; he thought how perfect she was. He said, trying to be arch, “Brandy? Is that a lady’s drink?”
     
    “Don’t be foolish, John. It doesn’t become you, with that heavy stiff voice of yours and your stiff manner.”
     
    He frowned. “Am I that pompous, Cynthia?”
     
    “Gracious, no. You’re never pompous, my dear. That’s one of your few charms. There, I am teasing you again.”
     
    John Ames was very tall and lean, without gauntness, and though his posture and mannerisms were exceedingly stiff he had a certain grace. His black broadcloth suit had been excellently cut in London, and his brocaded vest of black and gray fitted him exactly. His polished boots had also been made for him in London, of the best of black leather. He had a long, well-shaped face and a strong, somewhat brutal mouth from which deep cleft lines extended downward. Cold blue eyes, very bold and merciless, looked out from under a forehead without wrinkles, and his brown hair, thick and slightly curled, had no gray in it. There was a diamond in his black cravat and another on his right hand.
     
    He is almost a gentleman, thought Cynthia, regarding him pleasantly. But he is a man; there is no doubt of that! He makes me tingle, which is quite naughty of me, I am sure, for he is my brother-in-law. She sipped her brandy and looked up over the brim of the glass at him as he stood near her on the hearthrug. Her gray eyes twinkled with amusement.
     
    “Do sit down,” she urged again. He sat down opposite her. The mellow sunlight heightened the colors in the rug and gilded Cynthia’s hair. “Tell me all about everything,” she said. “How was dull old London and my dear, lovely Paris?”
     
    “You’ve forgotten that your ‘dear, lovely Paris’ and France are now engaged in a war. And ‘dull old London’ is making a pretty profit from it.” He smiled at her, and his somber lips parted to show square white teeth.
     
    “I keep forgetting,” said Cynthia. Her face changed. She made a restless gesture with both hands. “I never look at the newspapers. I loathe wars. How terrible of Germany to attack France!”
     
    “I believe it was mutual,” said John Ames. “But wars are in the nature of men; they spring out of their character. However, the French statesmen were fools; they knew it was inevitable that someday they must fight Germany, since Prussia defeated Austria in 1866. The French are penurious; they waited until it was too late to buy the munitions they needed. But now, when it is too late, they have the chassepot, a breech-loading rifle, far superior to the Prussian needle gun. They also have a machine gun, the mitrailleuse. English patents, sold for a very pretty price. This won’t help France, however. The war isn’t expected to last more than a year, if that.”
     
    Cynthia gazed at the glass in her hand. She said almost abstractedly, “You must have made a lot of money from those armaments, John.”
     
    “I always make a lot of money,” he said coldly. “But what do you know of these things, Cynthia?”
     
    “My dear John, I may be a woman, but I’m not a fool! Do you know what I heard a friend say once about you? ‘John Ames is a bird of disaster. He always appears