I put on the expression of a peccant but hopeful schoolboy, as I emptied one pocket after another of the scintillating treasures. The jewels lay, a gorgeous heap, on her lap. The necklace which she had particularly mentioned was of pearls. There were also rubies and emeralds, upon which she seemed to set special store, and a brooch in the form of a butterfly, which she said was made expressly for her by Lalique. But not a diamond in the collection! It appeared that she regarded diamonds as some men regard champagne—as a commodity not appealing to the very finest taste.
"I didn't think you were so mischievous," she laughed, frowning.
To transfer the jewels to her possession I had drawn my chair up to hers, and we were close together, face to face.
"Ah!" I replied, content, unimaginably happy. "You don't know me yet. I'm a terrible fellow."
"Think of my state of mind during the last fifteen minutes."
"Yes, but think of the joy which you now experience. It is I who have given you that joy—the joy of losing and gaining all that in a quarter of an hour."
She picked up the necklace, and as she gazed at the stones her glance had a rapt expression, as though she were gazing through their depths into the past.
"Mr. Foster," she said at length, without ceasing to look at the pearls, "I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are in Paris. Shall you stay till I have appeared at the Opéra Comique?"
"I was hoping to, and if you say you would like me to—"
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I do." And she looked up.