Only Paul, remembering her ways of old, and that, spirits or no spirits, the long journey must have fatigued one who was past the first untiringness of youth, urged her to rest; but with a little familiar nod of comprehension she set the very idea aside with scorn. Thereby, to say sooth, starting fair with him by arousing once more that tender admiration for pluck which, despite asseverations to the contrary, most men have for courage and fire in a woman. Paul Macleod, at any rate, felt it keenly when she came, plumaged like some delicate butterfly, into the drawing-room before dinner, causing Mr. Woodward to put down the share-list without a sigh, and Sam, who had been laying down the law loudly, to become bashfully silent. And then when, in consequence of her being the Honourable Mrs. Vane by virtue of a most dishonourable husband, Paul took her down to dinner, how different that dinner was! He recognised it gratefully; recognised the readiness of her smile, the art which her bright eyes had of making people believe in themselves and feel that they, too, had something to say worth the saying. The art, in short, of the hostess, which Lady George, with all her cleverness, had not; for the simple reason that she thought too much about the effect she was producing. And Violet Vane's worst enemies might call her artificial, but they could never have called her self-conscious or selfish. While, as for the artificiality, a woman must needs be that who is deadly weary, and who has given herself bright eyes and a ready tongue by means of chloric ether. Violet had to slip away for another dose ere she could face what to her was the dreariest, deadliest hour of the day--the time when the ladies wait patiently for the men to come up from the wine and the cigars; for she was frankly, unblushingly, a man's woman, and would confess as much to anyone with a smile. And wherefore not? She had lived among them all her life. She had no babies to discuss, had no experience of English housekeeping, and felt no sympathy with woman's rights or wrongs; for the simple reason that she herself had never felt the least disqualification of sex. She was bonne camarade in every fibre of her mind and body; yet withal a thorough little lady.
"Paul, my friend," she said, as he made his way straight to her sofa, where, with wide, bright eyes, she had been taking sights for future steering, "you can have five minutes by the clock, and then monsieur will be on duty again. Will he not? Yes! no doubt five minutes is short; it will not suffice to tell me all you have to tell, will it? But I would rather leave it for to-morrow. For I am tired, Paul, so tired, and I don't want to be cross."
Something in her voice touched him. "Of course, you are tired. I know that. But when was our dear lady ever cross?"
The old familiar title, given in the remote Indian station to the dainty little woman who had made life so pleasant to so many, came to his lips naturally, and the scent of the jasmine she wore carried him back to the days when it had seemed an integral part of consciousness; since life was divided into delirium-haunted forgetfulness and confused awakenings to the familiar perfume. And those are things a man never forgets. She laughed, though the words sent a throb to her heart.
"Cross?" she echoed; "I am always cross when people are dull. And you are dull to-night, Paul. Why?"
Those bright eyes were full of meaning, and he hesitated over the remark that he had been waiting for the sunshine of her presence. She laughed again, this time with an odd little ring in it. "My dear Paul, you should not need sunshine nowadays." There was no mistaking her intent, and he winced visibly.
"I always said you had antennae, Violet," he replied, with a flush; "but how on earth have you found that out already?"
She paused for a moment, and a mad desire to quote a proverb about thieves came over her. So it was true, then! True, and she--she was too late! She set her teeth firmly over her own pain. "Does it generally need such great acumen to discover when Paul Macleod is in love, mon ami?"
The sarcasm struck home, and he rose, feeling the position untenable. "Come and sing," he said; "it is years since I heard you."
She shook her head. "It will not do, Paul; not even though it is five years six months seventeen days and a few hours or so since we sang 'La ci darem' together. The five minutes is not up yet, so sit down, please, and tell me who these people are whom you want to amuse. Or, stay! I will catalogue them, and then you can correct my mistakes. Your sister? How handsome she is, yet not in the least like you. Lord George? A perfect angel, with a twinkle in his eye. He is to be my best friend. Your Miss Woodward? Alice is a pretty name, Paul; and her hair shall be of what colour it shall please God. Am I right, Benedict? Papa Woodward? Have a care, Paul! he studies the share-list too much; so have it in Government securities. Mamma Woodward? What her daughter will be at that age; it is such an advantage to a man, Paul, to see exactly what his future will be. Master Woodward? No! I will leave you to describe him."