“Allons,” said she, calmly, and took his arm; but, as she moved away, she saw Zoe Vizard passing on the other side of the table. Their eyes met: she dropped Ashmead's arm and made her a sweeping courtesy full of polite consideration, and a sort of courteous respect for the person saluted, coupled with a certain dignity, and then she looked wistfully at her a moment. I believe she would have spoken to her if she had been alone; but Miss Maitland and Fanny Dover had, both of them, a trick of putting on noli-me-tangere faces among strangers. It did not mean much; it is an unfortunate English habit. But it repels foreigners: they neither do it nor understand it.
Those two faces, not downright forbidding, but uninviting, turned the scale; and the Klosking, who was not a forward woman, did not yield to her inclination and speak to Zoe. She took Ashmead's arm again and moved away.
Then Zoe turned back and beckoned Vizard. He joined her. “There she is,” said Zoe; “shall I speak to her?”
Would you believe it? He thought a moment, and then said, gloomily, “Well, no. Half cured now. Seen the lover in time.” So that opportunity was frittered away.
Before the English party left the Kursaal, Zoe asked, timidly, if they ought not to make some inquiry about Mr. Severne. He had been taken ill again.
“Ay, taken ill, and gone to be cured at another table,” said Vizard, ironically. “I'll make the tour, and collar him.”
He went off in a hurry; Miss Maitland faced a glass and proceeded to arrange her curl.
Fanny, though she had offered no opposition to Vizard's going, now seized Zoe's arm with unusual energy, and almost dragged her aside. “The idea of sending Harrington on that fool's errand!” said she, peevishly. “Why, Zoe! where are your eyes?”
Zoe showed her by opening them wide. “What do you mean?”
“What—do—I—mean? No matter. Mr. Severne is not in this building, and you know it.”