“But, my dear love, you forced me reluctantly to draw that inference.”
Lady Gwendolyn pouted, and Colonel Dacre, being still his wife’s lover, as men of his constant nature continue to be all their lives, stooped his tall head and kissed the sweet, red mouth.
“Now, put on your hat,” he said, “and we will go for a little stroll. I am quite beginning to like this free-and-easy sort of life, Gwen. Are not you?”
“I don’t seem to mind much where we are so that we are together. I have given up the world and its vanities——”
“All for love?”
“All for love,” she repeated. “I couldn’t have a better reason, surely.”
“I am quite satisfied with it, if that is what you mean. But be quick and dress, or the beauty of the day will be over; and, mind you, wrap up well.”
She came back presently in velvet and furs, with a pretty, frosty bloom on her round cheeks; and as Colonel Dacre offered her his arm, he said proudly to himself that there wasn’t a woman in France who could come up to his darling. And his darling was quite aware that she was looking her best, and thoroughly enjoyed the respectful admiration she excited, not for its own sake, but because she liked Lawrence to feel that she was appreciated.
They walked up the center avenue of the Tuileries, and then made their way down the Rue Royale to the boulevards, which looked very gay this bright morning.
Then, walking briskly back again, they paid a visit to the pastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione, and lunched off oyster patties and babas, finishing up with the tiniest glass of curaçoa, as a suitable defense against the cold.