"Because, first, you have not once said 'I told you so,'—not reproached me for disregarding your advice."
"No? But that would be unnecessary. You are punished. Next?"
"Well, you let me remain here."
"Why not?"
She opened the steel-blue eyes on him sharply,—so sharply, in fact, that Jean Marot either could not just then remember why not or that he did not care to say. But she relieved him of that embarrassment very quickly.
"If you mean that I should be afraid of you, monsieur, or that I would have thought for a moment——"
"Oh! no, no, no! I do not mean that, of course. It was the fear women have of others——"
"What do I care for 'others'!" she snapped, scornfully. "Pray, Monsieur Jean, are there, then, 'others' who care anything about me? No! Ask them. No! I do what I please. And I account to nobody. Understand? Nobody!"
Mlle. Fouchette brought the small, thin white hand down upon the table with a slap that gave sufficient assurance of her sincerity, at the same time giving a happy idea of her immeasurable contempt for society.
"But, my dear Mademoiselle Fouchette, I, at least, care for you,—only——"