She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth, the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he—poor fool!—stood before her, absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after to-night would never gladden his eyes again.
"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.
"Oh, Mademoiselle—a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in Grenoble. . . ."
"Ah yes! I had forgotten—he told me that he had first met you at the house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."
"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in order to buy himself a pair of gloves."
"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."
"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance, Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me—a mere tradesman—in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of pleasing intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."
"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."
"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to check the words that would come tumbling out.
Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.