“My dear monsieur, I withdraw and I apologize,” he answers, with his most disarming smile. “Have it as you wish. Only—don't let her make a fool of you.”
He turned and walked out of the room whistling, and I was left to digest this dark thought.
Certainly it was true that I did not see much of her in the afternoons, but then, I argued, she had doubtless household duties. Her mother was an affected woman who loved posing as an invalid and had stayed in her room ever since the ball. Therefore she had to entertain the guests; and, now I came to think of it, Lumme would naturally press his suit whenever he saw a chance, and how could she protect herself? Certainly she could never compare that ridiculous little man with—well, with any one you please. It was absurd! I laughed at the thought. Yet I became particularly anxious to see her again.
In the evening she came for a few minutes to cheer my solitude. She could not stay; yet she sat down. I must be very sensible; yet she listened to my compliments with a smile. She was ravishing in her simple dress of white, that cost, I should like to wager, some fabulous price in Paris; she was charming; she was kind. Yes, she had been created to be a temptation to man, like the diamonds in her hair; and she perfectly understood her mission. Inevitably man must wish to play with her, to caress her, to have her all to himself; and inevitably he must get into that state when he is willing to pay any price for this possession. And she was willing to make him—and not unwilling to make another pay also. Indeed, I do not think she could conceivably have had too many admirers.
But I did not criticise her thus philosophically that evening. Instead, I said to her:
“I was afraid I should not see you till to-morrow—and perhaps not to-morrow.”
“Not to-morrow?” she asked. “Are you going away, after all?”