They chanced to be alone at dinner that evening, which was unusual. Neither of them spoke many words. When he addressed her it was with the utmost kindliness and gentleness of tone, but he said little, and his own preoccupation prevented him from noticing how constrained were her replies, how forced her smiles.
She observed, with a cruel tightening of her heart, that he never alluded to the death of his friend Napraxine.
When dinner was over, she said to him very calmly:
‘There are several engagements for tonight too, but if you will allow me, I will stay at home. I am a little—tired.’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ he said at once. ‘Never go into the world but when it amuses you; and your health is of far more value than any other consideration. Shall I call your physicians?’
‘Oh no; it is nothing. I am only a little fatigued,’ she said hurriedly; and as he stooped to touch her cheek with his lips she turned her head quickly, and for the first time avoided his caress.
He was too absorbed in his own thoughts even to observe the significance of the involuntary gesture. He led her to the doors of her own apartments, kissed her hand, and left her.
‘Sleep well,’ he said kindly, as he might have spoken to a sick child.
But to Yseulte it seemed that she would never sleep again.