Such were hers, first given to him in a café chantant of the Tuileries—oft afterwards repeated in jardin, bois, and bals of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the Église La Madeleine.
Busied with his brandy, and again gazing at Llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation:—
“Eh, bien?”
He starts at the interrogatory, turning round.
“You think too loud, Monsieur—that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. And you might—seeing that it’s a love secret! May I ask who is this she you’re soliloquising about? Some of your old English bonnes amies, I suppose?”
This, with an air of affected jealousy, she is far from feeling. In the heart of the ex-cocotte there is no place for such a sentiment.
“Got nothing to do with bonnes amies, young or old,” he gruffly replies. “Just now I’ve got something else to think of than sweethearts. Enough occupation for my thoughts in the how I’m to support a wife—yourself, madame.”
“It wasn’t me you meant. No, indeed. Some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest.”
“There, you’re right, it was one other, in whom I feel all that.”
“Merci, Monsieur! Ma foi! your candour deserves all thanks. Perhaps you’ll extend it, and favour me with the lady’s name? A lady, I presume. The grand Seigneur Lewin Murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less.”