"A pretty city, Madonna," he interposed imperturbably, "the church was built three hundred years ago ... the Cloth Hall..."
"And now you are impertinent," she declared hotly.
"Impertinent," he said quietly, even though the merry, gently mocking glance still lingered in his eyes, "impertinent because I decline to look on the present situation as a tragedy? How can I do that, Madonna, since it gives me the opportunity of spending an evening alone with you?"
"You might have done that yesterday and saved me much humiliation," she retorted.
"Yesterday I was a fool, Madonna," he said. "To-day I have become a wise man."
"What hath changed you?"
"Ten minutes of your company in the dining-hall last night."
She made no reply, glad enough that at this moment twilight was already fading into dusk. In the ingle-nook where they sat, there was hardly any light now save the glow of the fire. Anon the buxom, sad-eyed hostess came in carrying a lamp which she placed on one of the tables in the tapperij. She seemed to know--by that subtle instinct which pertains to every woman's heart--that the seignior and his noble lady did not wish to be disturbed. This was not the busy hour at the hostel: in about an hour's time, the soldiers off duty would be coming in, and the shopkeepers from their shops after their day's work; but just now there was no one, so the kindly old soul having so placed the lamp that a beneficent shadow still enveloped the ingle-nook, quietly tip-toed out of the room.
II
Several minutes went by before Lenora was able to shake off the curious torpor which had fallen over her senses: nor could she in any way account for the sweet feeling of well-being which accompanied it. She had made no reply to Mark's last words, nor did she make any now. She lay back in her chair with eyes half closed, feeling, knowing that he was looking at her unceasingly, with that intent, searching gaze of his which she had encountered once or twice before. She felt as if he were trying to reach her very soul--he, the careless ne'er-do-well, the dissolute frequenter of taverns--what did he care for a woman's soul?