Angélique sat down on the sill, also, leaning against the side of the window. The garden was becoming a void of dimness, through which a few fireflies sowed themselves. Vapor blotted such stars as they might have seen from their perch, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred with a whisper of wind.
"I am so glad you came to stay with me, Peggy. But you are dressed; why did you not go?"
"I am hiding."
"What are you hiding from?"
"Jules Vigo, of course."
"Poor Jules."
"Yes, you are always saying poor this and that, after you set them on by rejecting them. They run about like blind, mad oxen till they bump their stupid heads against somebody that will have them. I shouldn't wonder if I got a second-hand husband one day, taking up with some cast-off of yours."
"Peggy, these things do not flatter me; they distress me," said Angélique genuinely.
"They wouldn't distress me. If I had your face, and your hands and arms, and the way you carry yourself, I'd love to kill men. They have no sense at all."
Angélique heard her grind her teeth, and exclaimed,—