The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words, without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more upon the couch.
“We must talk in whispers,” she said, gayly. “Andrea always declares that he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course, impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for long.”
“There is a whole language,” he replied, “which was made for whispers. And as for Mademoiselle Celaire—”
“Well?”
He laughed softly.
“Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother’s friend than mine,” he murmured. “At least, I will be generous. He has given me a delightful evening. I resign my claims upon Mademoiselle Celaire.”
“It would break your heart,” she declared.
His voice sank even below a whisper. Decidedly, Peter, Baron de Grost, did not improve!
He rose to leave precisely at the right time, neither too early nor too late. He had spent altogether a most amusing evening. There were one or two little comedies which had diverted him extremely. At the moment of parting, the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Korust had been raised to his very earnestly.
“You will come again very soon—to-morrow night?” she had whispered. “Is it necessary that you bring Mademoiselle Celaire?”