"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a chair.
"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when—"
"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss."
He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and watch moods in Jean—as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, and always would be—which was not a bad trait for a husband to possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant—well, at least, it was obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter.
"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she demanded pertly.
"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly.
"Paul Valmain!" she repeated—and sat suddenly upright in her chair.
"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason to be jealous, even now that we are engaged."
"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply.
Jean shrugged his shoulders.