She glanced at him disdainfully, with the ghost of an insolent laugh.
“You here still, monsieur? Will you please go and tell the fiddles to begin?”
“And shall I dance to them to entertain you?” he said.
Her attitude robbed his passion even of a redeeming dignity. His devotion seemed comparable with the sick devotion of a schoolboy towards a holiday coquette.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You would at least entertain us more than now.”
The catgut gave its first screech as she spoke.
“I will go,” he said hurriedly; but he yet lingered out the final anguish.
“Have I not already entertained you enough? And I have not yet congratulated the prospective Lady Fitzgerald. And what shall I do with the flower you gave me, Pamela, when I accepted madame’s service because I loved you?”
For the first time she flushed angrily.
“You have no right to say it,” she cried. “And do you suppose I constitute myself the fairy godmother to every little weed I bestow!”