Solignac, his great head bowed, chin sunk on chest, lay back on the lounge, his eyes staring out from the black shadows of their deep hollows under the heavy brows; and he passed his shapely nervous hand over the girl’s tawny hair.
“It only seems but yesterday,” said he hoarsely, “that he praised my sonnets—and I brought him here.” He laughed bitterly. “I brought him here. Think of it, my Gabrielle; had he not praised my verse I had never——”
“Hush, father!” said she.
“It seems but yesterday that you married him—and went out and left me alone——”
“Father,” said she, “I am so glad to be back. It was horrible—to be a woman. I am so glad to be a child again.”
The old man laughed:
“I have gained,” he said—“and, by God, I am almost glad he is a villain.”
She put up her arms, pulled down his great head, and kissed his cheek:
“I have done with him,” she said.
“To think that I am amongst the greatest European authorities upon the mysteries of the East! and all to be juggled out of my wits by the first vulgar sycophant who sings my praise!... Ye pagan gods! how little wisdom is in books!”