She had already imparted an entirely different tone to these questions. There was more abandon in the first, which seemed more like a cry, but the second betrayed a sudden politeness, perhaps a little affected.
Vaudrey replied by some commonplace remark. It was a fine day; he was tired; he wished to warm himself in this early sunshine. But she?—
"Oh! I—really I don't know why I am here. Ask the—my coachman. He has driven me where he pleased."
She spoke in a curt, irritated tone, under which either deception or grief was hidden.
She was still mechanically throwing crumbs of bread around her, which were eagerly snatched at by the many-colored ducks, white or gray, black, spotted, striped like tulips, marbled like Cordovan leather, with iridescent green or blue necks, whose tone suggested Venetian glassware, all of them hurrying, stretching their necks, opening their bills, or casting themselves at Marianne's feet, fighting, then almost choking themselves to swallow the enormous pieces of bread that were sold by a dealer close at hand.
"Ah! bless me! I did not think I should have the honor of meeting you here," she said.
"The honor?" said Vaudrey. "I, I should say the joy."
She looked straight into his eyes, frankly.
"I do not know what joy is, to-day," she said. "I come from the Continental Hotel, where I hoped to see—"
"What is that?"