She was white as a sheet now, and Régis remained silent. Where was the use of quoting her own words to her—“at last—at last—after a whole long year!” Did she even remember them in her terror and confusion? He knew with the intuitive certainty of a squire of dames that she was not the sort to entertain a platonic affection—he had known that long before. She was defending herself as best she could, according to her limitations, and all the manhood in him revolted against prolonging the scene.
“You are upset,” he said, with less severity of tone, though his irritation had not diminished. “Supposing we let the matter drop now? I will, if you permit me, take you home. I have told you what I expect of you. Let it stop at that.”
Once again he became the polished man of the world, his mask admirably reattached, and as he spoke he bowed deferentially.
For a moment she did not appear to have heard him. Her attitude was one miserable alluring droop, and from its nest of laces and frou-frous one exquisitely shod foot peeped out among the fallen rose-petals on the floor. The pose was clever.
“Why do you dislike me—so—so—much?” she murmured, gazing fixedly downward at her little jeweled slipper, timidly busy amid the ruin of the roses.
Régis glanced at this amusing by-play and carefully denied himself the luxury of a smile.
“I said nothing of the sort,” he politely countered. “But it is getting very late, Princess.” He employed the title with deliberate bad taste. “May I have your carriage called?”
Laurence rose with a great rustle of her flowing silks, and stood dry-lipped before him. She made an evident effort to speak, but mortification and rage forbade this. Her eyes were flashing like yellow zircons, and he looked at her in some apprehension, though the firm set of his mouth did not relax. Then without warning she swayed forward, seized his hand in both her own, as if to support herself, and, falling against his shoulder, burst into a passion of sobs.
“Well, that’s the bouquet!” thought the irrepressible Régis, supporting her with no good will—this gay butterfly was in a virtuous mood! Besides, she was emphatically not his style, as he had remarked five years ago; also—under stress of weather, as it were—her methods were becoming somewhat too crude for this rafiné, used to more delicate behavior on the part of the women he admired.
“You—you—won’t be convinced!” she sobbed, clutching the lapel of his coat. “You are a—h—h—harsh man—Régis!” There was great tenderness in the way she pronounced his name.