Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.
He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
IV
The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump to his feet.
Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the brilliance of her deep blue eyes.
A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole attitude.
"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive you."
"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three cold little fingers which had been held out to him. "My friend de Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."
"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.