“What is it? Whither do you go?” she asked. “Not forward to Poitiers at this hour!”
“Oh, no!” I answered. “I was merely going to—to think—to fight it out. But I was rude. Pardon me. I—I did not realize what I was doing.”
“You are pardoned,” she said; and her voice was siren-sweet. “Perhaps I can help you to fight it out, my friend—at least I should like to help you. Besides I have not yet done talking to you. I have some further advice at your disposal, if you care for it.”
“I do care for it,” I said; and turned instantly back to her. “You are very kind.”
“I wish to be kind,” she murmured; and looked up at me with a smile that set my head to whirling. “But before I proceed,” she added, “you must sit here beside me. I can’t talk to you when you are prowling up and down like that. I feel as though I were tête-à-tête with a wild animal, and it disconcerts me.”
She patted the seat with an inviting hand, and smiled again that alluring smile. I sat down obediently and looked at her, noting how the moonlight touched her hair with silver and gave a strange glory to her face.
“Since you are betrothed to another, M. de Tavernay,” she began, turning in the seat so that she faced me, “doubly betrothed, with a tie there is no breaking, and since I have satisfied myself that you are a man of honor, I feel that I can be quite frank with you—almost as I should be with my own brother, did I have one. What is it?” she asked, noticing the cloud which swept across my countenance.
“Nothing, nothing,” I hastened to say. “Only there was a sting in the words, as well as kindness.”
“A sting?” she repeated. “I fear you are very thin-skinned, M. de Tavernay.”
“Perhaps I am,” I admitted humbly. “I shall try to remedy the fault.”