But it is only a passing madness. He is not quite lost yet. And Marguerite, as she looks up at him hastily, sees no trace of passion in his face.
When she is alone she kisses eagerly the hands he has held in his.
“He will come again, and again!” she says aloud. “He is not a man to stop at anything if inclination leads him. He spoke of my beauty. Oh! how I thank Heaven for it now—now that I know it will give me my heart’s desire yet!”
CHAPTER VII.
DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL.
“If one should love you with real love—
Such things have been—
Things that your fair face knows nothing of
It seems—Faustine?
. . . . . . . . . .
“Curled lips, long since half kissed away,
Still sweet and keen,
You’d give him poison, shall we say?
Or what—Faustine?”
They are much sought after, the little suppers that Mademoiselle Ange gives on Wednesday nights.
Dainty, récherché feasts, where the guests are chosen more for social than moral worth, and the cuisine is irreproachable.
Mademoiselle, with the tact of a hostess to the manner born, and the savoir-faire that she has learned goodness knows how, is careful that these small feasts shall savour rather of gay Bohemianism than the conventional dullness that some people deem inseparable from propriety.