"Oh, but you must have heard!" said Madeleine. "It's no use putting me off," she added, with determination. "I want to find out about Maurice."
"And I fear I can't assist you. All I HAVE chanced to hear—mere rumour, of course—is that ... well, if Guest doesn't pull himself together, he won't play at all.—By the way, what did you think of James the other night, in the LISZTVEREIN?"
"Oh, that his octaves were marvellous, of course!" said Madeleine tartly. "But I warn you," she continued, "it's of no use changing the subject, or pretending you don't know. I intend to speak of Maurice."
"Then it must be to some one else, Miss Madeleine, not to me."—Dove could never be induced to call her Madeleine, as her other friends did.
"And why, pray, are you to be the exception?"
"Because, as I've already mentioned, I don't see any more of Guest. He mixes in a different set now.—And as for me, well, my thoughts are occupied with, I trust, more profitable things."
"What? You have thoughts, too?"
"I hope you don't claim a monopoly of them?" said Dove, and smiled in his imperturbable way. As, however, Madeleine persisted, he grew grave. "It's not a pleasant subject. I should really rather not discuss it, Miss Madeleine."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't let us play the prudish or sentimental!" cried Madeleine, in a burst of impatience. "Of course, it isn't pleasant. Do you think I should "—"bother with you," was on her tongue. She checked herself, and substituted—"trouble you about it, if it were? But Maurice was once a friend of ours—you don't deny it, I hope?" she threw in challengingly; for Dove muttered something to himself. "And I want to get at the truth about him. I'm sorrier than I can say, to hear, on all sides, what a fool he's making of himself."
Dove was suavely silent.