Madame de Guéran changed colour and bent down her head without replying. She seemed to be uncomfortable and embarrassed by the close scrutiny to which she had been subjected, but, though at first she was pained by the dissection of her innermost feelings, she still felt less isolated, less thrown back upon herself.
This state of feeling was intelligible enough—instead of being called upon for a confession she would not have had the courage to make, it was made for her. Her silence was in itself an avowal, and in saying nothing she told all.
M. Delange hastened to follow up the advantages he had gained, and continued, with warmth—
"Confide in me. You know very well that for some time past you have been seeking a confidant, but you could not find one. It was impossible for you to know me as I really am—serious enough when occasion calls for it, and devoted heart and soul to those I care for. You could not open out your heart to Miss Poles, because her eccentricities prevent her claims being taken into serious consideration, and as for our two friends, they are the very last persons you would choose as confidants."
"Why so?" she asked, abruptly.
"You want to know?"
"Certainly; candour for candour."
"And if my candour displeases you?"
"So much the worse for me. I ask you for it."
"Very well. You can only confide in a friend, and both these gentlemen love you."