“Ah! . . . that idyllic folly,” said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, “did not then survive the lapse of . . . weeks?”
“Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . . . They come upon us like the measles . . . and are as easily cured.”
Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.
“No wonder,” he repeated, with the same gallantry, “that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with ennui.”
“I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my little Chauvelin.”
“How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish?”
“Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend?” she said drily.
“Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well do,” said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. “I have a most perfect prescription against the worst form of ennui, which I would have been happy to submit to you, but—”
“But what?”
“There is Sir Percy.”