It was a churlish return, and she had been gentle. The chill that fell between us was of my making. I knew that with every second of silence I was putting myself more deeply in the wrong. But I had to ask one thing more.
"Madame, they tell me here that you say that you regret our marriage,—that I forced you to bear my name. Have you said that?"
I could not be blind to the hurt in her face. "Monsieur, how can you ask?"
And then I was shamed. I knelt again to her hand. "Only to prove in open words that Lord Starling lied. Did you think I doubted? No, madame, no woman of our house has ever had finer pride or a truer instinct. Believe me, I see that. But so the story flies. Madame, all eyes are on us. We must define the situation in some manner as regards the world. May I talk to you of this?"
The hand under my lips grew warm. "Monsieur, we are to wait. When we reach Montreal"——
"But, madame! These intervening months! It will be late autumn before we return to Montreal."
She drew in her breath. "Late autumn! Monsieur, what are your plans?
You forget that I know nothing. And tell me of your escape."
I rose and looked down at her. "We have both escaped," I said, and because emotion was smiting me my voice was hard. "Let us not talk of it. I see that you are here, and I thank God. But I cannot yet bring myself to ask what you have been through. I cannot face the horror of it for you. I beg you to understand."
But it was I who did not understand when she drew away. "As you will," she agreed, and there was pride in her great eyes, but there was a wound as well. "Yet why," she went on, "should a knowledge of human tragedy harden a woman? It strengthens a man. But enough. Monsieur, have you heard—the lady of the miniature is at Montreal?"
I was slow, for I was wondering how I had vexed her. "You never saw the miniature," I parried. "How can you connect a name with it, madame?"