"We must go back," she says, with a touch of regret in her voice. "One could stay here forever, but there are duties and duties."
He turns with her and they come up the path together. Cecil and Violet stand on the balcony, warm, yet full of youthful gladness. Cecil has acquitted herself so beautifully that the two have been a centre of admiration, and Violet has run away from the compliments. She has been idly watching the two figures on the terrace, and as they come nearer it gives her a curious feeling that she at once tries to dismiss as selfish.
Eugene strolls out to them. He has been on terms of friendly indifference with his pretty little sister-in-law, classing her with Cecil, but to-night he has seen her in a new character, which she sustains with the brilliant charm of youth, if not the dignity of experience. He is sore and sulky. He has not been fool enough to believe madame would marry him, but he would have married her any day. He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner, her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her. Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of assault by making diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose. She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked, in a tone of gloomy persistence.
She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor of ridicule.
"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of assured steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must not grow sentimental with me."
She looks at him out of clear eyes that are maddening, and yet he cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.
"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."
"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly. "Neither am I such a wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite for what I call a good marriage."
"I do not suppose I shall ever make a good marriage," he says, calmly, but with bitter emphasis.
"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a fortune if you will; you can grace any society."