“No!”––and again the Marquise drew her hand away. “It is no longer amusing,” she remarked in English, “when those people think it their duty to pair couples off like animals in the ark.”
Her face had flushed, though she tried to look indifferent. The Egyptian had stepped back and was regarding her curiously.
“Do not cross the seas, Mademoiselle; all of content will be left behind you.”
“Wait,” and the Monsieur Incognito put out his hand. “You call the lady ‘Mademoiselle,’ but your guess has not been good;” and he pointed to a plain ring on the hand of the Marquise.
“I call her Mademoiselle because she never has been a wife, and––she never will be a wife. There are marriages without wedding rings, and there are wedding rings without marriages; pardon!––” and passing between the ferns and palms she was gone.
“That is true!” half whispered the Marquise, looking up at him; “her words almost frighten me.”
“They need not,” and the caress in his eyes made her drop her own; “all your world of Paris knows the romance of your marriage. You are more of a celebrity than you 73 may imagine; my knowledge of that made me fear to approach you here.”
“The fear did not last long,” and she laughed, the coquetry of the sex again uppermost. “For how many seconds did you tremble on the threshold?”
“Long enough to avoid any friends who had planned to present me.”
“And why?”