Then suddenly, as if fleeing from her own fear, she looked up again, surfeiting her senses with the crowds, the lights, the smoke and scent and crashing music.
"But what folly!" she cried. "Life goes on! The same round, is it not so? Life and love and jealousy! Come, little monsieur, what have you to say?"
She turned to Max, sitting silent and attentive; but even as she turned, there was a flutter of interest among the tables behind her, and a young girl ran up, laying her hand upon her arm.
"Lize!" she said, with a little gasp. "Lize! He is here—and I am afraid."
Max looked up. It was the girl he had pointed out to Blake as sitting at the table with the ugly, clever-looking man; and his eyes opened wide in fresh surprise, fresh interest as he studied the details of her appearance. She was of that most attractive type, the fair Parisienne; her complexion was of wax-like paleness, her blonde hair broke into little waves and tendrils under her Pierrot hat, while her eyes, clear and blue, proclaimed her extreme youth. As she stood now, clinging to the elder woman's arm, her mind showed itself in an utter naturalness, an utter disregard of the fact that she was observed. Max remembered Blake's words—"These are true citizens of the true Bohemia."
But the woman Lize had turned at her cry, and laid a plump, jewelled hand over her slim, nervous fingers.
"Jacqueline! My child, what is wrong?"
"He is here! And Lucien is here! And I am afraid!"
The words were vague, but the elder woman asked for no explanation.
"Does Lucien know?"