“Your gallantry argues no lack of practice, Monsieur Loris,” she returned; glancing at him over her fan. “Who was she, during those months of absence? Come; confess; was she some worldly soul like the Kora of your latest picture, or was it the religieuse––the new marquise about whom every one is curious?”
“The Marquise? What particular Marquise?”
“One more particular than you were wont to cultivate our first season in Rome,” remarked Lavergne.
“Oh! oh! Monsieur Dumaresque!” and the fan became a shield from which Madame peered at him. Sidonie almost smiled, but recovered herself, and gave attention to the primroses.
“You see!––Madame Choudey is shocked that you have turned to saintliness.”
“Madame knows me too well to suppose I have ever turned away from it,” retorted Dumaresque. “Do not credit the gossip of Lavergne. He has worked so long among clays and marbles that he has grown a cold-blooded cynic. He distrusts all warmth and color in life.”
“Then why not introduce him to the Marquise? He might find his ideal there––the atmosphere of the sanctuary! I mean the new Marquise de Caron.”
“Oh!” Dumaresque looked from one to the other blankly and then laughed. “It is Madame Alain––the Marquise de Caron you call the devotee? My faith––that is droll!”
“What, then, is so droll?”