"That is enough," Maurice protested hastily. Tragedy oppressed him to the verge of annoyance. "But tell me—who was the knight-errant, that I may at least shake hands with him."
The blood tingled in Quita's cheeks, and she went quickly forward into the room.
"I doubt if you will want to do that when you know his name," she said.
"It was—Captain Lenox."
"Nom de Dieu! That fellow!" Michael flung out his hands with a dramatic gesture of despair. "What is he doing here, par exemple, instead of poking about among his glaciers? Now I suppose he will not rest till he has taken you from me again."
The frank selfishness of the man's first thought was so characteristic that Quita smiled. But her smile had an edge to it.
"Set your mind at rest on that point," she said. "He is no more anxious to claim—his property, than I am to be claimed."
"Curse him! Did he dare to tell you so?"
Quita lifted her head; a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.
"You seem to forget that he is a gentleman, and—my husband." Then, recovering herself, she added more gently, "There are ways and ways of telling things, mon cher, and since I have relieved your anxiety, we need not mention him again. The subject is distasteful to me. Now, I want to see how you have got on with the masterpiece!"
She went to the easel; and Maurice, following, stood at her elbow anticipating the sweet savour of praise. For the picture was a notable bit of work, daringly simple in colouring and design, yet arresting, convincing, alive.