But she felt that by way of argument it was rather too much of a good thing. So she only smiled a queer smile which spoke as plainly as words. Muffat had raised his eyes to her and now once more lowered them, looking pale and full of embarrassment.
“Ah, you’re not good natured,” she muttered at last.
“I cannot,” he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish. “I’ll do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you not to insist on that!”
Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and glued her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently; he trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was beside himself. She lifted him to his feet.
“Go,” said she simply.
He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she took him in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his and rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have done.
“Where’s the fine house?” she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously refused.
“In the Avenue de Villiers.”
“And there are carriages there?”
“Yes.”