“Mme. Delhasse perhaps, or perhaps the Duke of Saint-Maclou?”
Marie Delhasse made no answer. She sat with her elbows on the table, and her chin resting on the support of her clenched hands; her lids drooped over her eyes; and I could not see the expression of her glance, which was, nevertheless, upon me.
“Well, well,” I continued, “we needn’t talk about him. Have you been doing some shopping?” And I pointed to the red leathern box.
For full half a minute she sat, without speech or movement. Then she said in answer to my question, which she could not take as an idle one:
“Yes, I have been doing some bargaining.”
“Is that the result?”
Again she paused long before she answered.
“That,” said she, “is a trifle—thrown in.”
“To bind the bargain?” I suggested.
“Yes, Mr. Aycon—to bind the bargain.”