But an instant only; in another he got himself in hand again and steeled his heart to cruel kindness. It went against nature to hurt her; but the hurt would not bite deep, its tonic pang would leave no scar. Not for the first time did life now give him proof of the readiness of a nature emotionally shallow and impressionable to succumb to the glamour of his ill-fame as a romantic rogue.
"Madame," said he with genuine reluctance, "would be so much wiser to think first of herself always."
She argued with a rebellious face: "But I can't help it—can I?—if it's you I must think of first."
"Nor can I help it," he gently said, "if I must always think first of another."
Folly caught her breath with a sharp little hiss, released Lanyard's arm and stood away, colouring but—strangely enough—not in anger.
"Oh!" she cried; and added with a half-smile of whimsical self-reproach—"I'd forgotten. So it's true, what Liane told me." She accepted a slow inclination of Lanyard's head, gave a small wistful sigh. "I suppose she must be very beautiful. . . . Won't you tell me what she is like?"
"Some day, perhaps," Lanyard vaguely agreed . . . "If you let me live to see another."
"I!"
"There's practically no danger if I may be permitted to say good night without more delay."
"I presume you must . . ." Folly wagged her head, with a smile that broke in ruefulness but radiated in unaffected amusement at her own expense. "What a silly you must think me, a sentimental little ninny! No: don't deny it, because you're quite right. So that's that—and what must be, must. Many thanks for my emeralds, Monsieur the Lone Wolf, and"—she dropped him a mischievous courtesy—"more for my lesson. And so—good bye!"