She looked shyly — with a new shyness —
at her lover when he came into the room where they
were dining. She observed for the first time
that proud carriage of the head, with the chin thrust
forward, that was a trick of his, and she noticed
with what a grace he moved — the grace of one
who in youth has had his dancing-masters and fencing-masters.
It almost hurt her when he flung himself into a chair
and exchanged a quip with Harlequin in the usual manner
as with an equal, and it offended her still more that
Harlequin, knowing what he now knew, should use him
with the same unbecoming familiarity.
THE AWAKENING
“Do you know,” said Climene, “that
I am waiting for the explanation which I think you
owe me?”
They were alone together, lingering still at the table
to which Andre-Louis had come belatedly, and Andre-Louis
was loading himself a pipe. Of late —
since joining the Binet Troupe — he had acquired
the habit of smoking. The others had gone, some
to take the air and others, like Binet and Madame,
because they felt that it were discreet to leave those
two to the explanations that must pass. It was
a feeling that Andre-Louis did not share. He
kindled a light and leisurely applied it to his pipe.
A frown came to settle on his brow.
“Explanation?” he questioned presently,
and looked at her. “But on what score?”
“On the score of the deception you have practised
on us — on me.”
“I have practised none,” he assured her.
“You mean that you have simply kept your own
counsel, and that in silence there is no deception.
But it is deceitful to withhold facts concerning
yourself and your true station from your future wife.
You should not have pretended to be a simple country
lawyer, which, of course, any one could see that you
are not. It may have been very romantic, but...
Enfin, will you explain?”
“I see,” he said, and pulled at his pipe.
“But you are wrong, Climene. I have practised
no deception. If there are things about me that
I have not told you, it is that I did not account them
of much importance. But I have never deceived
you by pretending to be other than I am. I am
neither more nor less than I have represented myself.”
This persistence began to annoy her, and the annoyance
showed on her winsome face, coloured her voice.
“Ha! And that fine lady of the nobility
with whom you are so intimate, who carried you off
in her cabriolet with so little ceremony towards myself?
What is she to you?”
“A sort of sister,” said he.
“A sort of sister!” She was indignant.
“Harlequin foretold that you would say so;
but he was amusing himself. It was not very
funny. It is less funny still from you.
She has a name, I suppose, this sort of sister?”
“Certainly she has a name. She is Mlle.
Aline de Kercadiou, the niece of Quintin de Kercadiou,
Lord of Gavrillac.”
