Gonzague seemed to look at the girl sympathetically, but really looked at her critically. He found her so pleasing to his eye that he almost regretted that she had been chosen for the part she had to play, but also he found her on the whole so suited to that part that he felt bound to stifle his regret. "Surely," he said, and smiled kindly upon her.
Flora gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "I have always dreamed that I should be a great lady. And dreams come true, you know—the dreams that gypsies dream."
Gonzague raised his hand to check her speech. "Forget the gypsies. Forget that the gypsies called you Flora. Your name is Gabrielle."
Flora gave a start of surprise. "Gabrielle!" she said. "How strange! That is the name of my dearest friend."
It was Gonzague’s turn to be surprised, but he never was known to betray an emotion. It was with an air of complete indifference that he asked: "Who is she?"
And Flora answered, simply: "A girl I knew and loved when we were living in Spain."
Gonzague knew that he was agitated; and that he had every reason to be agitated, but he knew also that no one beholding him would know of his agitation. "What became of her?" he asked, still with the same apparent indifference.
And Flora answered as readily as before: "We travelled to France together."
"Travelled to France together!" echoed Gonzague.
Perhaps, in spite of himself, some hint of keenness was betrayed in the voice he was so studious to keep indifferent, for this time Flora gave question for question, suspiciously: "Why does all this interest you?"