“Never!” she exclaimed emphatically.
“For the sake of la belle France,” murmured Beauvais encouragingly.
“What,” said Pauline, addressing Marie, “what is your opinion of Alexander’s face?”
“It is a handsome one, but—but there is something about it I do not like,” she replied, speaking in a somewhat lower tone as if afraid that the portrait, overhearing the remark, might do something to show its resentment. “See how cold the eyes are! It—seems to be frowning at me,” she continued timorously. “What do you think of it, Lord Courtenay?” she added, turning to Wilfrid.
“Our hostess,” he replied, bowing towards Pauline, “has so high an opinion of Alexander that in her presence I hesitate to say anything derogatory even of his portrait.”
To this Pauline did not reply, but continuing to address Marie, she said with an odd smile:—
“Then I may take it that you would not like to be his wife?”
“His wife!” echoed Marie, opening her eyes wide, as if it had been seriously proposed to marry her to Alexander. “What a strange question!”—To judge by his quiet chuckle it was one in which the doctor seemed to find some amusement.—“After what I have said of his portrait you can guess my answer. Besides, has he not a wife already?”
“A wife whom he is ceasing to love,” remarked Pauline quietly.
“Why?”