“Oh, that’s a mountain. What’s the name of it, now? I can’t remember. It’s very high and pointed, and people are always climbing it and falling into holes.”
“The Matterhorn, perhaps,” suggested the count, politely.
To which Maud gave a relieved assent. Her words were commonplace enough, but there was a quality of light-heartedness, of suppressed elation, in her voice, that her mother’s quick ear instantly caught. As the girl looked up at their approaching figures her face showed the same newly-acquired sparkle that was almost joyous.
It had, in fact, been a critical evening for Maud, and so miserable did she feel her situation to be, that she had taken her courage in both hands and struck one desperate blow for freedom.
When her mother and Essex had begun their pictorial migrations she had felt the cold dread of a tête-à-tête with the count creeping over her heart. For a space she had tried to remain attached to Win and Pussy Thornton, but neither Win nor Pussy, who were old friends and had many subjects of mutual interest to discuss, encouraged her society. Maud was not the person to develop diplomatic genius under the most favorable circumstances. Half an hour after the men had entered the drawing-room, she found herself alone with the count, in front of the fire, Win and Pussy having strayed away to the Bouguereau.
The count had tried various subjects of conversation, but they had drooped and died after a few minutes of languishing existence. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking curiously at Maud, who sat on the edge of an armchair just within reach of the fluctuating light. Her hands were clasped on her knee and she was looking down so that he could not see her face.
Suddenly she rose to her feet and faced him. She was pale and her eyes looked miserable and terrified.
“Count de Lamolle,” she breathed in a tremulous voice.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, moving toward her, very much surprised by her appearance.
“I’ve got to say something to you. It may sound queer, but I’ve got to say it.”