She was in terror. Even now her eyes glanced affrightedly towards the open doorway, already expecting the appearance of her mistress. To the enigma which the girl’s presence at all in the Villa Iris proposed to Paul Ravenel, here was another added. Why should she be so terrified of that red-faced, bustling woman behind the Bar? After all, Marguerite Lambert—the only delicate and fresh and young girl who had danced there for a living—must mean custom to Madame Delagrange; must be therefore a personage to be considered, not a mere slave to be terrified and driven! Why, then—? How, then—? And his blood was hot at the mere thought of Marguerite’s terror and subjection.
But he showed nothing of his anger, nothing of his perplexity in his face. He was at pains to reassure her. Let him not add to her fears and troubles.
“I promise, Marguerite,” he said. “But let’s hope she doesn’t notice your absence.”
Once more she smiled, her face a flame of tenderness.
“You called me by my name.”
He repeated it, dwelling upon its syllables.
“It’s a beautiful name,” he said.
“Perhaps, as you speak it,” she answered with a laugh. “But wait till you hear how harsh a word Madame can make of it.”
The waiter brought the supper and laid it on the table between them.
“Eat and drink first,” said Paul Ravenel, as he poured the red wine into her glass. “Then we will talk.”