“Is that because he is in love, Mademoiselle?” inquired de Casimir with a guarded laugh.
“Perhaps so.”
She did not look at him. De Casimir had not missed this time. His air of candid confidence had met with a quick response. He laughed again and moved towards the door. Mathilde stood motionless, and although she said no word, nor by any gesture bade him stay, he stopped on the threshold and turned again towards her.
“It was my conscience,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder, “that bade me go.”
Her face and her averted eyes asked why, but her straight lips were silent.
“Because I cannot claim to be more interesting than Charles Darragon,” he hazarded. “And you, Mademoiselle, confess that you have no tolerance for a man who is in love.”
“I have no tolerance for a man who is weakened by love. He should be strengthened and hardened by it.”
“To—?”
“To do a man's work in the world,” said Mathilde coldly.
De Casimir was standing by the open door. He closed it with his foot. He was professedly a man alert for the chance of a moment, which he was content to grasp without pausing to look ahead. Should there be difficulties yet unperceived, these in turn might present an opportunity to be seized by the quick-witted.