And the charming old lady, whose dress seemed to lend her an extraordinary vivacity, came towards him, balancing the plate on the tips of her tiny fingers.
“Don’t bother him. You can give him some at dinner,” said Felicia quietly.
“At dinner?”
The dancer was so astonished that she almost upset her pretty pastries, which looked as light and airy and delicious as herself.
“Yes, he is staying to dine with us. Oh! I beg it of you,” she added, with a particular insistence as she saw he was going to refuse, “I beg you to stay. Don’t say no. You will be rendering me a real service by staying to-night. Come—I didn’t hesitate a few minutes ago.”
She had taken his hand; and in truth might have been struck by a strange disproportion between her request and the supplicating, anxious tone in which it was made. Paul still attempted to excuse himself. He was not dressed. How could she propose it!—a dinner at which she would have other guests.
“My dinner? But I will countermand it! That is the kind of person I am. We shall be alone, just the three of us, with Constance.”
“But, Felicia, my child, you can’t really think of such a thing. Ah, well! And the—the other who will be coming directly.
“I am going to write to him to stay at home, parbleu!”
“You unlucky being, it is too late.”