“Are you still in pain, my Zizi?” asked his mother, who had been gazing at him throughout the meal.
He started and blushed as he said that he was very well now, but the worn-out insatiate expression of a girl who has danced too much did not fade from his face.
“What’s the matter with your neck?” resumed Mme Hugon in an alarmed tone. “It’s all red.”
He was embarrassed and stammered. He did not know—he had nothing the matter with his neck. Then drawing his shirt collar up:
“Ah yes, some insect stung me there!”
The Marquis de Chouard had cast a sidelong glance at the little red place. Muffat, too, looked at Georges. The company was finishing lunch and planning various excursions. Fauchery was growing increasingly excited with the Countess Sabine’s laughter. As he was passing her a dish of fruit their hands touched, and for one second she looked at him with eyes so full of dark meaning that he once more thought of the secret which had been communicated to him one evening after an uproarious dinner. Then, too, she was no longer the same woman. Something was more pronounced than of old, and her gray foulard gown which fitted loosely over her shoulders added a touch of license to her delicate, high-strung elegance.
When they rose from the table Daguenet remained behind with Fauchery in order to impart to him the following crude witticism about Estelle: “A nice broomstick that to shove into a man’s hands!” Nevertheless, he grew serious when the journalist told him the amount she was worth in the way of dowry.
“Four hundred thousand francs.”
“And the mother?” queried Fauchery. “She’s all right, eh?”
“Oh, SHE’LL work the oracle! But it’s no go, my dear man!”