Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.
Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:
“Don’t be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things.”
“For you, sir,” cried Marie. “Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out.”
“Words, words, words, my dear Marie,” he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. “Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child—but sit down, I want to talk to you.”
“Will you leave this room, sir?” cried Marie angrily.
“No, my child, I shall not,” he said, smiling. “You say you are ready to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted between Ruth here and myself—Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife.”
“Your wife!” cried Marie indignantly.
“Yes: my wife; and don’t raise your voice like that, my dear child. By the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston Square?”
“Marcus? Captain Glen?” cried Marie, whose lips turned white.