The voice of the Marquise sounded through the hall and up the stairs. She was singing, joying as a bird. The eyes of the two met, and Dumaresque laughed.
“Oh! and what is that but a mood, too?” demanded the dowager; “a mood that is pleasant, I grant you, and it has lasted longer than usual––ever since we came to Paris. I enjoy it, but I like to know the reason of things. I guess at it in this case; yet it eludes me.”
Dumaresque raised his brows and smiled as one who invites further confidences. But he received instead a keen glance from the old eyes, and a question:
“Loris, who is the man?”
“What! You ask me?”
“There is no other to ask; you know all the men she has met; you are not a fool, and an artist’s eye is trained to observe.”
“It has not served me in this case, my god-mother.”
“Which means you will not tell. I shall suspect it is yourself if you conspire to keep it from me.”
“Pouf! When it is myself I shall be so eager to let it be known that no one will have time to ask a question.”
“That is good,” she said approvingly. “I must rest now. I have talked so long; but a word, Loris; she likes you, she trusts you, and that––well, that goes far.”