She flushed slightly and her eyes softened and wavered, but only for an instant.
“And what of your loyalty to your betrothed?” she queried with biting irony.
But even that failed to wound me, to pierce the garment of joy in which I was once again enveloped.
“It shall never again be broken,” I said. “But nothing she can do will change the past.”
“You mean you would not have it changed?”
“No!” I cried. “No! It is the dearest thing I have. I am proud of it! I glory in it! I shall keep it always warm against my heart.”
“Do you know, I suspect you are something of a poet, M. de Tavernay?” she said, after a moment’s inspection of my face from under half-closed lids.
“Oh, no!” I protested. “It is love makes me appear so.”
Again she contemplated me for a moment, a puzzling smile playing about her lips.
“Come, monsieur,” she said suddenly, “I am going to be generous. Sit down again. You see, I have faith in you. Besides, I wish to keep my friend, if I can. After all, perhaps you may care for me—although, I repeat, it is only for the moment.”