I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real.
With another upward glance, she said:
“My name is Marie Delhasse.”
“It is a well-known name,” said I with a bow.
“You have heard of me?”
“Yes.”
“What?” she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.
“That you are a great singer,” I answered simply.
“Ah, I’m not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe. What about me?”
Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.