"True. She does not approve them. But Elise—Mme. de Lauraguais—"
"Yes, she is very pleasant, and a little pretty, too."
"And now—now—you met Mme. de Châteauroux. What do you think of her?" Claude asked the question firmly, after a struggle with himself.
Deborah turned crimson, and started to rise from her place, but de Mailly gently held her back. He would have his answer; and it was given him. After all, he had married a woman, and one whose feelings, though often unexpressed, were none the less acute. She voiced them now. "Claude—I hate her! She is not pretty. Her face is hideous! She was rude to me, to her sister, to the Marquise, to every one but you. And you sat beside her almost the whole afternoon. Ah! I cannot bear her! Mme. de Mailly told me why she was in Paris, how she had been made to leave the King. Claude, are you not ashamed that she is of your blood?"
Deborah was on her feet now, and flung her words straight at her husband. He sat silent, quite still, rather pale, through the outburst. After it he did not answer her question, but only murmured to himself, "Why do women so seldom like her?" Then, looking up at his wife, he said, kindly:
"Deborah, you know that I have always been fond of my cousin. I—have been very proud of her. So have we all. Was it unnatural that she should wish to talk with me after we had been separated for so long?"
Deborah jerked her head impatiently. "I do not like her," she reiterated, with dogged displeasure.
Claude rose, with a faint sigh. "Your French was wonderfully good. I was very pleased, dear. To-morrow—you shall have some costumes ordered. Naturally, yours are a little ancient in mode. Good-night."
"Good-night."
He kissed her upon the forehead, and would have turned away, but that suddenly she flung her arms about his neck passionately, and, raising her lips to his ear, whispered: "Claude—Claude—I am a stranger here. You are all I have of—the old life. Be—be kind to me."