Her head drooped. "Yes. I should have told you before."
"What plans have you made? I suppose it will be the usual mad scheme of running away. I ought to betray you, of course, but—"
"We haven't arranged anything yet; there is plenty of time."
"Plenty of time—Mon Dieu!" the man rasped out. "How like you, Fatalité! What a pair! Vardri always living au clair de la lune, and you half asleep, and full of illusions. Les illusions sont les hirondelles. How often have I told you that?"
"They make life possible," Arithelli answered softly.
Again the man stared and marvelled. Verily, here was another being who was neither "Becky Sharp" nor "Fatalité." The exultation, the triumph of one loved and desired, was hers for the moment. Who, seeing her now, could have the heart to warn her of inevitable disillusion, the doubts and fears, the clinging and the torments that are the heritage of all womenkind.
He, too, had once dreamed foolish dreams.
He gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him.
"Vardri is your lover? You shall answer me before I leave this room."
She did not flinch, or blush, or look away.