“Priest!” she interrupted impatiently, “don’t give me excuses! Those veiling rags under which men hide their scared swarm of sins! Bah!”
He looked happily expectant at the crevices just over his head.
“Oh, well, it is immaterial,” she continued coldly, carelessly; “you are only my instructor. Come and go when you please. I have sought your learning, not you.” Her foot tapped measuredly. “Learning satisfies every craving of the heart, man—nothing. Learning is steadfast; a friend, who coaxes away the weariness of hours, hueing dull days with treasures from forgotten time, a wealth from the ends of the earth. It has a hundred attributes; man—not one. It is a cloak for chilled age, a balm for pain, an ointment for misfortune, and man—Oyah!”
The Breton thumbed contentedly the leaves of his book.
Presently the tapping of her foot ceased. He heard the soft, sensual rustle of her garments, then the wicket opened.
The pink had gone out of the wife’s cheeks; her face was pallid and her long lustrous eyes looked larger yet from the darkness that was under them.
The Breton glanced furtively at her as she came down and sat with her back to him.
“I am——” he ventured, uncertain.
“Yes?” she drawled, turning her head slightly toward him.
“I have thought about it.”