“As far as that goes, anyone can see at a glance that he’s not much of a man with the women, but, even then, some things don’t bear thinking about.”
Madame de Gromance turned to Philippe a beautiful look full of happiness and peace, a look that counselled the banishment of all painful thoughts, and going up to him placed full upon his lips a kiss, magnificent as a royal scarlet seal.
“Mind my cigarette,” he said.
By this time she was clothed in a very simple grey dress, and was arranging her toque upon her fluffy hair. Suddenly she broke into a laugh, and he inquired the cause of her amusement.
“Oh, nothing!”
Then, as he persisted in his inquiry:
“Well, I was only thinking that when your mother went to see her lover—years ago, you know—she must have found her hair a terrible nuisance, that is if she wore it as it is in that portrait you have of her at home.”
He made no reply, not quite knowing how to treat a joke of this description, which inwardly shocked him.
“You’re not angry, surely,” she went on. “You do love me, don’t you?”
No, he was not angry; yes, he loved her; and she returned to her original idea.