St Denys stamped his foot impatiently.
“Why do you blink here like moping owls?” he said. “The air is balm; the moon walks up the sky; there is not a bank but breathes out a sweet invitation.”
They bustled to their feet at his words. One man pulled from under the table a hamper loaded with wine-flasks and horns.
“We revel in the open,” said St Denys to Ned. “We give our words flight, like fairies, under the stars. Nothing remains to rankle, or to generate mischief, as in the close atmosphere of rooms.”
“Very well,” said Ned, “the open for me;” and he stepped out, accompanied by three others, into the sweet-blown wood.
The moment he found himself alone with her, St Denys turned upon Théroigne.
“Mademoiselle coquette,” said he, showing his teeth, “I could very easily strike you on the face!”
“And why?” she said quietly, her eyes glittering at him.
“Oh! do you not understand?”
“Little mother of God!” she cried low, her nostrils dilating, “but here is a consistent president! Did not the stranger conform to rule? Would you have had me give you the lie by repulsing him?”