“Just one more little glass, m’sieu’?” She had in her other hand a plate of seed-cakes. “But yes, you must sit down and eat a cake,” she added adroitly. “They are very nice, and I made them myself. We are very fond of them; and once, when the bishop stayed at our house, he liked them too.”
Before he sat down he drank off the whole of the cordial in the glass.
She took a chair near him, and breaking a seed-cake began eating it. His tongue was loosened now, and he told her what he was smiling at when she came into the room. She was amused, and there was a little awe to her interest also. To think—she was sitting here, talking easily to a man who had eaten at kings’ tables—with the king! Yet she was at ease too—since she had drunk the cordial. It had acted on her like some philtre. He begged that she would go on with her work; and she got the dish of strawberries, and began stemming them while he talked.
It was much easier talking or listening to him while she was so occupied. She had never enjoyed anything so much in her life. She was not clever, like Christine, but she had admiration of ability, and was obedient to the charm of temperament. Whenever Ferrol had met her he had lavished little attentions on her, had said things to her that carried weight far beyond their intention. She had been pleased at the time, but they had had no permanent effect.
Now everything he said had a different influence: she felt for the first time that it was not easy to look into his eyes, and as if she never could again without betraying—she knew not what.
So they sat there, he talking, she listening and questioning now and then. She had placed the bottle of liqueur and the seed-cakes at his elbow on the windowsill; and as if mechanically, he poured out a glassful, and after a little time, still another, and at last, apparently unconsciously, poured her out one also, and handed it to her. She shook her head; he still held the glass poised; her eyes met his; she made a feeble sort of protest, then took the glass and drank off the liqueur in little sips.
“Gad, that puts fat on the bones, and gives the gay heart!” he said. “Doesn’t it, though?”
She laughed quietly. Her nature was warm, and she had the animal-like fondness for physical ease and content.
“It’s as if there wasn’t another stroke of work to do in the world,” she answered, and sat contentedly back in her chair, the strawberries in her lap. Her fingers, stained with red, lay beside the bowl. All the strings of conscious duty were loose, and some of them were flying. The bumble-bee that flew in at the door and boomed about the room contributed to the day-dream.
She never quite knew how it happened that a moment later he was bending over the back of her chair, with her face upturned to his, and his lips—With that touch thrilling her, she sprang to her feet, and turned away from him towards the table. Her face was glowing like a peony, and a troubled light came into her eyes. He came over to her, after a moment, and spoke over her shoulders as he just touched her waist with his fingers.