She looked at him steadily—her marvelous eyes self-searching for sure remembrance of the earnestness with which he had pleaded in favor of the lover of Rose de Bercy—how he had said that Osborne had already loved again; and how she, Rosalind—oh, how blind and deaf!—heedlessly had brushed aside his words, saying that a man of that mood was below being a topic....
"Is it half an hour?" Osborne came whispering, with a bending of the body that was like an act of worship.
She smiled. In the moonlight he could not perceive how ethereally white was her face.
"It is one half-minute!... It was rather quixotic of you to have proposed, and of me to have accepted, such a meeting. But I felt sure that by this hour others would be strolling about the terraces. As it is, you see, we are pioneers without followers. So, till we meet again——"
She seemed to be about to hurry away without another word; he stood aghast.
"But, Rosalind——"
"What? How dare you call me Rosalind?"
Now her eyes flashed upon him like sudden lightning from a dark blue sky, and the scorn in her voice blighted him.
"I—I—don't understand," he stammered, trying to come nearer. She drew her skirts aside with a disdain that was terrifying.
Then she laughed softly again; and was gone.