“You are flattering me.  Dad used to say that I was as homely as a hedge-fence.”

“Now you’re fishing, and I’m too old a fish to rise to such a cast.”

“I heard you sing in Paris a few years ago,” said M. Ferraud.

“Yes?” Hildegarde von Mitter wondered who this little man could be.

“And you sing no more?”

“No.  The bird has flown; only the woman remains.”  They were at the table now, and she absently plucked the flowers beside her plate.

“Ah, to sing as you did, and then to disappear, to vanish!  You had no right to do so.  You belonged to the public,” animatedly.

“The public is always selfish; it always demands more than any single person can give to it.  Pardon?” she said as Cathewe leaned to speak to her.  “I did not hear.”

M. Ferraud nibbled his crisp celery.

“I asked, what will you do?” repeated Cathewe for her ear only.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know that he was here?”

“I should not have been seated at this table had I known.”

“Some day you are going to tell me all about it,” he asserted; “and you are going to smile when you answer me.”

“Thank you.  I forgot.  My dear friend, I am never going to tell you all about it.  Why did you not come first?” her voice vibrating.

“You still love him.”

“That is not kind,” striving hard to keep the smile on her trembling lips.  “Oh, I beg of you, do not make this friendship impossible.  Do not rob me of the one man I trust.”

Cathewe motioned aside the fish and reached for his sauterne.  “I have loved you faithfully and loyally for seven years.  I have tried to win you by all those roads a man may honorably traverse in quest of the one woman.  For seven years; and for something like three I have stayed away at your command.  Will you believe it?  Sometimes my hands ache for his throat . . .  Smile, they are looking.”

It was a crooked smile.  “Why did I ever tell you?”

“Why did you ever tell me . . . only part?  It is the other part I wish to know.  Till I learn what that is I shall never leave you.  You will find that there is a difference between love and infatuation.”

“As I have never known infatuation I can not tell the difference.  Now, no more, unless you care to see me break down before them.  For if you tell me that you have loved me seven years, I have loved him eight,” cruelly, for Cathewe was pressing her cruelly.

“Devil take him!  What do you find in the man?”

“What do you find in me?” her eyes filled with anger.

“Forgive me, Hildegarde; I am blind and mad to-night.  I did not expect to find him here either.”