So, this is why she fainted at sight of him—simply because he happens to resemble some sweetheart of other days. The idea is not flattering, and irritates him. Somehow, he had fancied that his own irresistible attractions had had an effect on her; but he cannot gaze on her and not soften at once.
“Mademoiselle Ange, why do you live this life?” he says abruptly.
“What harm is there in my life?” she asks. “It suits me!”
“It suits no woman to forfeit respect for admiration—modest life for public display; but what right have I to talk to you so? To what good can I talk? For, is it not a little too late?”
“You are very hard on me,” she falters. “Ah! I see you will never like me—for you are prejudiced!”
“What does it matter to you if I am prejudiced? After all, you could only care for my liking as you care for the liking of a dozen other men. Come—strangers almost though we are—tell me who is the most favoured amongst your worshippers! For, in spite of being prejudiced, I have felt a great interest in you ever since I first looked on your face.”
She glances up at him, and the colour deepens on her cheek.
“Why should you take an interest in me? I am only a poor artist, and quite below your notice,” she answers, with a sort of proud humility.
“You would not say that if you knew how much I have thought about you, how your face has haunted me. It has bewitched me—malgre moi—I think. Do you know, Mademoiselle Ange, that if I am like someone you knew, you are strangely like someone I have seen; someone who certainly was not so beautiful as you are, or I should remember her to my cost,” he adds softly.
She flushes still deeper as she listens, then turns the subject by saying lightly: