"You have only to speak, my dear Marianne," Lissac answered, as if he had not noticed the intimacy her words expressed.
He affected a cold politeness; Marianne replied to him with apparent renewed tenderness. She looked at him for some time as if she hesitated and feared, her glance penetrating Lissac's, and begging with a tearful petition that wished to kindle a flame in his eyes.
"What I have to say to you will take some time. I am afraid—"
"Of what?" he asked.
"I don't know. You are in a hurry? I interfere with you, perhaps!"
"Not the least in the world. I breakfast at the Club, take a turn in the Bois, and drop in at the Mirlitons to see the opening. You see that I should be entitled to very little merit in sacrificing to you a perfectly wasted day."
"Is the present Exposition of the Mirlitons well spoken of?" asked Marianne, indifferently.
"Very. It is a collection of things that are to be sold for the benefit of a deceased artist. Would you like to go there at four o'clock?"
"No, thanks!—And I repeat, my dear Guy, that I will not hinder you, you know, if I have been indiscreet in giving you an appointment!—"
She seemed to be mechanically toying with the silk rosettes in the little vase; she picked them up and let them drop from her fingers like grains.