"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of letting men know it."
"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly. "That is not true."
"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose your companionship for that purpose."
"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that of you. We've had a code of our own, Hermia—all our own. Last night you made me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I—"
She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes flashing furiously.
"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. "Do you hear? When I ask for love—uncomplaining—unselfish, I know where to seek it." She reached up suddenly, snatched Père Guégou's faded blossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it under her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was really awake to the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.
They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the rear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity, and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train for Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned him against further contrition.
His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town she stopped and waited for him to join her.
"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly. "I'm going through the town alone."
He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his manner coolly assertive.