“Oh, yes!” said Cecil lightly. “A trivial misconception, nothing more. And I have made a little out of it, too.”
“Indeed! Much?”
“No, not much! Two thousand francs. But you must remember that I have been less than half an hour in making them.”
The curtain rose on the garden scene from “Faust.”
IV.
“My dear,” said Eve.
When a woman has been definitely linked with a man, either by betrothal or by marriage, there are moments, especially at the commencement, when she assumes an air and a tone of absolute exclusive possession of him. It is a wonderful trick, which no male can successfully imitate, try how he will. One of these moments had arrived in the history of Eve Fincastle and her millionaire lover. They sat in a large, deserted public room, all gold, of the Grand Hotel. It was midnight less a quarter, and they had just returned, somewhat excited and flushed, from the glories of the gala performances. During the latter part of the evening, Eve had been absent from Cecil’s box for nearly half an hour.
Kitty Sartorius and Lionel Belmont were conversing in an adjoining salon.
“Yes,” said Cecil.
“Are you quite, quite sure that you love me?”