“To that—scullery-man, you mean. Yes, perhaps you are too late. It is so wise to ask too late, mon cousin.”
She laughed gaily, and turned away towards the house. Then she stopped suddenly and came back to him.
“Seriously,” she said, looking down at him with a grave face—“seriously. My prayers should always be for any woman who became your wife—you, and your soldiering. Ciel! it would kill any woman who really cared—”
She broke off and contemplated him as he lay at full length.
“And she might care—a little—that poor woman.”
“She would have to care for France as well,” said de Vasselot, momentarily grave at the thought of his country.
“I know,” said the baroness, with a wise shake of the head. “Mon ami, I know all about that.”
“I have some new newspapers from Paris,” she added, going towards the house. “I will send them to you.”
And it was Denise who brought the newspapers. She handed them to him in silence. Their eyes met for an instant, and both alike had that questioning look which had shone in Denise's eyes as she came downstairs. They seemed to know each other now better than they had done when they last parted at the Casa Perucca.
There was a chair near to his, and Denise sat down there as if it had been placed on purpose—as perhaps it had—by Fate. They were silent for a few moments, gathering perhaps the threads that connected one with the other. For absence does not always break such threads, and sometimes strengthens them. Then Lory spoke without looking at her.