"You were bored, I am afraid?" she hazarded, as the carriage started.
"Mon Dieu!" answered her husband, throwing himself back in the corner, "could one be otherwise? It was intolerable—to listen to all that stuff about Pompeii and Ste. Généviève. Madame de Chastenay is preposterous with her female phenomena. Don't ever ask me to go there again!"
And, had it not been Armand who spoke, Horatia would have thought the voice thoroughly bad-tempered.
"But, my dear Armand," she protested, putting a hand on his arm, "I would willingly have come away sooner if I had known. I thought you were admiring the poetess; she is very pretty—no, she is beautiful."
"Entendu. It is a woman's business to be beautiful, but not to declaim wearisome verses. Don't ask me to go to any more of these functions with you!"
Horatia turned a little pale and drew back. Could it be true after all, that incredible thing which the Duchess had said, that she would make him ridiculous—that he himself thought it, feared it?
Armand could not but perceive her shrink, and the lover conquered the sulky male. He caught her hand.
"My darling, forgive me! I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that there is no greater pleasure for me than to be with you, but ... I was so bored!"
Impossible to resist the half-humorous, half-pleading tone, and the look in his eyes. As the carriage rolled under their own gateway she bent forward and put a light kiss on his temple.
"I forgive you," she said.