‘No,’ said Paul; ‘the topic is forbidden.’
She laughed gaily and blushed a little.
‘Now, that is very clever, and very wicked of you,’ she purred. ‘That topic is not to be approached even elliptically. But really and truly, my poor Paul, you are not well, and I shall see that you take proper care of yourself. You will take a glass of wine at once.’
‘No,’ he said, waving a hand against her as she made a motion to rise.
‘You used not to contradict my orders,’ she told him, ‘and you shall not do it now. I can give you a really excellent glass of champagne—not a lady’s champagne, be it understood, a man’s wine—a connoisseur’s.’
He made no further protest, and she rang a small silver bell near her hand. A grave serving-man appeared in answer to this summons, received his mistress’s order, and glided away again.
‘I have all your news?’ the Baroness asked, turning to her guest again.
‘All,’ he answered—’ all there is to tell.’
He had known perfectly well at one time that she was not strictly a beautiful woman. He had been able to analyze her, to admit very fine eyes and teeth, and a clear, if somewhat florid, glow of complexion. He had granted, further, fine hair, and very beautiful hands and arms. But he wondered at himself, and could have laughed at his own blindness. The power of analysis had gone out of him because he was in love. She was merely a soft, dazzling splendour in aspect now, and every look and tone and attitude was a witchery and a wonder.
‘I have not seen you in evening dress before to-night, Paul,’ she said. ‘I like you in evening dress. It is a great test of a man’s distinction. It is cruel to all but the few. It is distinctly not cruel to you.’