Maurice plucked a berry, ate it, and smacked his lips. It was a good berry.
“But what a terrible thing it would be if one should die suddenly, or be thrown into a windowless dungeon, shut out from all these splendid reaches?”
Maurice plucked another berry, but he did not eat it. Instinctively he turned—and met a pair of eyes as hard and cold and gray as new steel.
“That,” said he, “sounds like a threat.”
“And if it were, Monsieur, and if it were?”
“If it were, I should say that you had discovered that I know too much. I suspected from the first; the picture merely confirmed my suspicions. I see now that it was thoughtless in me not to have told my friend; but it is not too late.”
“And why, I ask, have I not suppressed you before this?”
“Till to-day, Madame, you had not given me your particular consideration.” Then, as if the conversation was not interesting him, he returned to the berries. “There's a fine one there. It's a little high; but then!” He tiptoed, drew the branch from the wall, and snatched the luscious fruit. “Ah!”
“Monsieur, attend to me; the berries can wait.”
“Madame, the life of a good blackberry is short.”