‘Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus Flamma demanat, etcetera. Have you been studying that most witty anatomy of the lover in the volume of Catullus that I lent you?’ asked Jacques, rather mockingly.
‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, blushing. Then, after a pause,—
‘It seems that ... er ... er ... my father ... that this Ariane ... that, in short, he has prospered in his suit of late?’
‘Has he? I am exceeding glad to hear it,’ said Jacques dryly. Then, looking at her with his little inscrutable smile, he added: ‘You show a most becoming filial interest in your father’s roman; ’tis as if you held its issue to be tied up in some strange knot with the issue of your own.’
How sinister he was looking! Madeleine stared at him with eyes of terror. She tried to speak but no sound would come from her lips.
Suddenly his expression became once more kind and human.
‘Why, Chop,’ he cried, ‘there are no bounds set to your credulity! I verily believe your understanding would be abhorrent of no fable or fiction, let them be as monstrous as they will. In good earnest you are in sore need of a dose of old Descartes!’
‘But, Jacques, I have of late been diligently studying him and yet it has availed me nothing. My will has lost naught of its obliquity.’
‘How did you endeavour to straighten it ... hein?’ Jacques asked very gently.