"Lance," she said, "are we to quarrel—over a woman, too? I will not believe it. You have always been honest with me; tell me what Madame Vanira is to you?"
"She is nothing to me," he replied.
Then the remembrance of what she had been to him came over him and froze the words on his lips. His wife was quick to notice it.
"You cannot say it with truth. Oh, Lance, how you pain me."
There was such absolute, physical pain in her face that he was grieved for her.
"Say no more about it, Marion," he cried. "I did ask madame to let me row her on the river; I know she loves the river; I ought to have asked you to go with us, or to have told you about it," he said; "I know that; but people often do imprudent things. Kiss me and say no more about it."
But for the first time that sweet girl looked coldly on him. Instead of bending down to kiss him, she looked straight into his face.
"Lance," she said, "do you like Madame Vanira?"
His answer was prompt.
"Most decidedly I do," he answered; "every one must like her."