“Every day,” he assented, smiling down at her. “Of course you did not hear me. I was very confidential about it. I even tried to stop it entirely when I was allowed to believe that Mademoiselle was Madame.”
“But it is quite true––she is Madame.”
“Certainly; yet you let me think––well, I forgive you for it now, since I have found you again.”
“Monsieur!”––she half arose.
“Will Mademoiselle have her fortune told?” asked a voice beside them, and the beringed Egyptian pushed aside the palms, “or Monsieur, perhaps?”
“Both of us,” he assented with eagerness; “that is, if Mademoiselle chooses.” He dropped two pieces of gold in the beaded purse held out. “Come,” he half whispered to the Marquise, “let me see if oblivion is really the doom fate reads against me.”
She half put out her hand, thinking that after all it was only a part of the games of the night––the little amusements with which purses were filled for charity; then some sudden after thought made her draw it back.
“You fear the decision?” he asked.
She did not fear the decision he meant, but she did fear––