She made a choked sound of dissent. "I'm horribly selfish," she said, with a sob.
"No, dear, no. I understand. I ought to have thought of it before."
She knew that he was thinking of Cinders, and that a return to the old haunts could but serve to reopen a wound that was scarcely closed. She was thankful that he interpreted her reluctance thus, even while she marvelled to herself as she realized how far she had travelled since the bitter day on which she had parted with her favourite. Looking back, she saw now clearly what that tragedy had meant to her. It had been indeed the commencement of a new stage in her life's journey. It was on that day that she had finally stepped forth from the summer fields of her childhood, and she knew that she would wander in them no more for ever.
The thought went through her with a dart of pain. They had been very green, those fields, and the great thoroughfare which now she trod seemed cruelly hard to her unaccustomed feet.
A sharp sigh escaped her as she gently withdrew herself from her husband's arms. "Shall we talk about it to-morrow?" she said.
CHAPTER IV
"MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"
Sitting in his writing-room with Bertrand that night Mordaunt imparted the news that concerned him so nearly.
The young Frenchman listened in almost unbroken silence, betraying neither surprise nor even a very great measure of interest. He sat and smoked, with eyes downcast, sometimes fidgeting a little with the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise displaying no sign of agitation.
Only at the end of the narration did he glance up, and that was but momentarily, when Mordaunt said, "It transpires that this Rodolphe had an old score to pay off. You were enemies?"