“Flimsy pretexts!” cried Barnes. “A woman’s reputation––her good name––”
“Hush!” said Saint-Prosper.
From the door at the far end of the balcony Constance had again emerged and now approached their room. A flowing gown of an early period surrounded her like a cloud as she paused before Barnes’ apartment. At the throat a deep-falling collar was closely fastened; the sleeves were gathered in at elbow and wrist, and from a “coverchief,” set upon the dusky hair, fell a long veil of ample proportions. With the light shimmering on the folds of her raiment, she stood looking through the open door, regarding the manager and Saint-Prosper.
“Oh, you are not alone?” she said to the former. “You look as though you were talking together very seriously?” she added, turning to Saint-Prosper.
“Nothing of consequence, Miss Carew!” he replied, flushing beneath her clear eyes.
“Only about some scenery!” interposed the manager, so hastily that she glanced, slightly surprised, from the one to the other. “Some sets that are––”
“‘Flimsy pretexts!’ I caught that much! I only wanted to ask you about this costume. Is it appropriate, do you think, for the part we were talking about?” Turning around slowly, with arms half-raised.
“Charming, my dear; charming!” he answered, enthusiastically.
“If I only thought that an unbiased criticism!” Her dark lashes lowered; she looked toward the soldier, half shyly, half mockingly. “What do you think, Mr. Saint-Prosper?”