To his further annoyance she hesitated, peering down into his face through the lace veil that obscured her features.
"Pierrot!—Is it really you?" He was on his feet with a sudden start. The memory of dead days rose up, bewildering him.
"Fantine!" He stared at her, amazed.
"Mais oui!" She held out her hand—"You do not remember me?—And I——? Ma foi!—I thought you must be dead!" ...
"Au contraire!" he tried to collect his thoughts. "Very much in the flesh, as you see."
He remembered quickly there had been no scene, no definite break in their friendship; only his silence since that night when he had probed her treachery. He felt at a loss to find, now, an excuse for avoiding her company.
"I've been abroad," he explained lamely, "for two years. I'm off to-morrow to shoot in Scotland. London's beastly. Even my Club's shut against me!"
Fantine smiled, then she sighed.
"Lucky Pierrot!" She sank down on the nearest chair and with a gesture invited him to the one beside it. "You will like that—to shoot, hein?" Again a fit of coughing seized her.
She looked thin, McTaggart thought. He could not harden his heart against her, with that shadow of death that seemed to hang like a cloud over her old brilliancy.