When the meal was over we went into the smoking-room; and then, and only then, did M. le Vicomte refer to the question of Eloise in a few well-chosen words.
Then he dismissed us as though we were schoolboys; and I took the musician off to see my apartments.
Now, I am Irish, or at least three parts Irish, and I suppose that accounts for some eccentricities in my conduct of affairs. I am sure that it accounts for the fact that my joy up to this had carried me along so irresistibly and so pleasantly that I had not once looked back.
It was when I opened the door of my sitting-room that memory, or perhaps conscience, woke up to deal my happiness a blow.
The man beside me knew nothing of Eloise's past. Or did he?
Never, I thought, as I looked at him. His happiness is new-born, it has been stained by no cloud. She has told him nothing.
I sat down and watched him as he roamed about the room, examining the works of art, the pictures, and the hundred-and-one things, pretty or quaint; costly toys for the grown-up.
I sat and watched him.
An overmastering impulse came upon me to go at once to Etiolles, see Eloise, and speak to her alone, if possible.