She moved her slender shoulders upward in the gesture she had learned from Olga Tcherny.
"That will be quite pleasant," she resumed, easily. "He will render us a little less prosy, perhaps."
Markham watched her a moment in silence, his wounds aching dully.
"I came here—to warn you of that—danger," he said slowly. "Since you don't feat it, my mission is ended." He took up his hat and stick and moved toward the door. "I shall not question your wisdom or your sense of responsibility to me or to yourself. But I think I understand at last what you would have of me. Whatever you wish, of course, I shall do without question. I was alone in Normandy—or with someone else, if you like. It was my Vagabondia—not yours. There was no Philidor—no Yvonne—no Cleofonte or Stella—no roses of Père Guégou—no roses in my heart. They're withered enough, God knows. You wish to forget them. You want me to remember you as you are—to-day." He laughed. "I think I'll have no difficulty in doing so—or helping by my silence or my cooperation in carrying out any plans you may have, if you should find it necessary to call upon me."
"I thank you," she murmured, her head bent.
He regarded her a moment steadily, but she would not meet his gaze. At the door he paused.
"I have heard of your reported engagement," he finished more slowly.
"I'd like you to know that I had too much faith in you to believe it.
But I think—indeed I'm sure I'm ready to believe it now—if you tell
me it's true."
She did not raise her head, but her lips moved inarticulately. He glanced at her a moment longer and then, with an inclination of the head, passed out into the hall and so to the door.