She did not reply.
“Why do you not answer?” he asked harshly.
“Oh, I shall be here,” she answered. “I was thinking of—how differently—I dreamed it.”
She rose again, picked up her swansdown-edged muff, her gloves, her cane, and fastened her cloak at the chin.
“Good-bye, Monseigneur,” she said timidly. “My father will bring me to-morrow. I will go now—I think—the horses will be tired—of waiting.”
She curtsied and was turning away when the Marquis rose suddenly and stood between her and the door.
“Mademoiselle,” he said hoarsely.
She stopped and looked at him. He was no longer erect, no longer haughty. He looked old and bitterly troubled. He stood in a deprecating attitude before her delicate young loveliness.
“Forgive me if I was harsh,” he said thickly. “I have no right perhaps to ask what I do.”
She shuddered violently.