“Well,” said the artist, as the two men walked away from the Priory in the murky dusk, “what do you think of her?”
“Of which her? La belle future, or the otha-i-r?”
“What do you think of Mrs. Monckton? I don’t want your opinion of my future wife, thank you.”
Monsieur Bourdon looked at his companion with a smile that was half a sneer.
“He is so proud, this dear Monsieur Lan— Darrell,” he said. “You ask of me what I think of Mrs. Monck-a-tonne,” he continued, in English; “shall I tell you what I think without reserve?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think, then, that she is a woman of a thousand—in all that there is of resolute—in all that there is of impulsive—in all that there is of daring—a woman unapproachable, unsurpassable; beautiful to damn the angels! If in the little business that we came to talk about lately this woman is to be in the way, I say to you, my friend, beware! If there is to be any contest between you and her, beware!”
“Pray don’t go into heroics, Bourdon,” answered Launcelot Darrell, with evident displeasure. Vanity was one of the artist’s strongest vices; and he writhed at the notion of being considered inferior to any one, above all to a woman. “I knew Mrs. Monckton, and I knew that she was a clever, high-spirited girl before to-day. I don’t want you to tell me that. As to any contest between her and me, there’s no chance of that arising. She doesn’t stand in my way.”
“And you refuse to tell to your devoted friend the name of the person who does stand in your way?” murmured Monsieur Bourdon, in his most insinuating tones.
“Because that information cannot be of the least consequence to my devoted friend,” answered Launcelot Darrell, coolly. “If my devoted friend has helped me, he will expect to be paid for his help, I dare say.”