He reached the middle of the room before he caught sight of her. An angry frown suddenly overcast features which, in repose, were at once singularly dignified and melancholy.
“How now?” he said harshly. “How come you here?”
Whatever illusion Jeanne de Mantes might have cherished as to her power over the man she loved, that frown, the cutting tones, all too quickly dispelled it. She felt as one who, stretching her cheek for a kiss, receives a blow. Ingrate! And she who, this day, was braving death to see him once more! Quick upon the smart of pain, her fury rose. Squaring her elbows, she looked at him insolently.
“Why, in my sedan chair, milord.”
“Who brought you, then?”
But she had not the strength for the fight. What had come to Jeanne de Mantes? She found herself faltering:—
“Nay, say what brought me, Rockhurst, and I will tell you. It was to see you.” Her voice deepened, the tears she would not shed wept in it. “I was packing, if you would know, for country and safety, even this morning. And when Mr. Ratcliffe told me—”
“Ha!” he interrupted, speaking half to himself, “I might have known who had baited this trap.”
She went on with rising plaint:—