“Chère Madame, when are not beautiful women cruel?” he said aloud. “It is their chief quality; even their kindness one suffers from—probably more,” he added to himself.
“Indeed I meant to be kind,” said Liane quickly. “I thought, ‘Here is this poor young man, inexperienced, bored with his bank, with a great talent (that I most emphatically declare he really has, Monsieur, a unique talent).’ I am an artist to my finger-tips, think of me what you like. I could not resist the temptation, I persuaded him to forsake the Bank. I threw him with both hands into the world of music, all this time without dreaming of the poor boy’s emotions—they were, I thought, only gratitude. Monsieur le Comte, they were not!”
“At his age what could you expect?” laughed Romain.
“I never yet knew a grateful young man; indeed, I would rather not.”
Liane brushed aside Romain’s comments; she leaned forward in her chair.
“She is getting a little too old to be so dramatic; it tires one,” Romain said to himself.
“It was not gratitude,” said Liane, drawing herself up with a superb gesture, “c’était l’amour!”
“Dear me!” said Romain, concealing a desire to yawn. “Wouldn’t you have been awfully annoyed with him if it hadn’t been?”
Liane’s eyes met his for a moment; she ceased to be superbly dramatic. Then she leaned back in her chair and laughed.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Give me a cigarette, please!”