“Need one tell him?” he whispered. “You see, I trust you. I pray that you will come-”
Bernadine was a man rarely moved towards emotion of any sort. Yet even he was conscious of a certain sense of excitement, as he stood looking out upon the Embankment from the windows of Paul Hagon’s sitting-room, a few days later. Madame was sitting on the sofa, close at hand. It was for her answer to a certain question that he waited.
“Monsieur,” she said at last, turning slowly towards him, “it must be no. Indeed, I am sorry, for you have been very charming to me, and without you I should have been dull. But to come to your rooms and dine alone to-night, it is impossible.”
“Your husband cannot return before the morning, Bernadine reminded her.
“It makes no difference,” she answered. “Paul is sometimes fierce and rough, but he is generous, and all his life he has worshiped me. He behaves strangely at times, but I know that he cares—all the time more, perhaps, than I deserve.”
“And there is no one else,” Bernadine asked softly, “who can claim even the smallest place in your heart?”
“Monsieur,” the woman begged, “you must not ask me that. I think that you had better go away.”
Bernadine stood quite still for several moments. It was the climax towards which he had steadfastly guided the course of this mild intrigue.
“Madame,” he declared, “you must not send me away. You shall not.”
She held out her hand.