"You do not propose to go to him?" Cleone's voice trembled.
Philip started.
"Mademoiselle speaks en plaisantant? The country in this weather?" He shuddered.
"I see," said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass.
"That little foot ..." he said softly. It was withdrawn. "Ah, cruel! It inspired me with—I think—a madrigal. Cased in silver satin.... Ah!"
"It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?"
"Jamais de ma vie!" Philip threw out his hands. "It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye, chère mademoiselle, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy."
"How very absurd!" tittered Cleone.
"Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!"
"I do not understand you, sir!"