Suddenly he remembered that he had promised to see her that night, and, with an abrupt perception of the opportunity thus offered, he pulled himself together, and swung off rapidly toward the Porte Dauphine. As he walked, inhaling the fragrance of the evening air, a new sanity seemed to descend on him. He promised himself that this should be the end. However the effect was to be accomplished, he was determined to break the relation, kindly but firmly, and at whatever risk to regain, if not his self-esteem, at least his freedom. As to what should follow, he did not care—or dare—to ask. The unknown significance of the lost message soothed him like an irrational caress. Was it too late? Is it ever "too late to mend"? He neither knew nor cared. Given his freedom, he would chance the rest. Fate was hard. A thought checked him. "Fate is hard—cash!"
"Whatever I believe," he told himself, "I don't believe that." And then, in the illogical manner of man, added: "I don't care what it costs me—this is the end!"
He found Mirabelle in a corner of her great divan, and the room softly illumined. She wore a bewitchingly dainty lounging-gown of iridescent silk, in the folds of which peacock-blues and greens played and rippled into each other in constant com-minglings.
"Embrasse-moi," she said, looking up at him.
She glanced at him curiously as he straightened himself again and dropped upon the cushions at her feet. In a woman, the manner of a kiss performs the midwife's office to the beginnings of clairvoyance.
"I wonder," said Andrew presently, "if you know that people are talking about us, ma chère?"
Mirabelle commented upon this intelligence with a tilt of her eyebrows.
"Yes," continued Andrew, "it seems that our doings are become public property, and our reputations are in jeopardy."
"Yours, perhaps," remarked the girl. "As for mine, mon ami, ça n'existe pas."