He looked at her gravely for a moment, so gravely that the laughter began to fade from her eyes.
“I find you charming, Citoyenne,” he answered at last. “You remind me of Diana.”
“Compliments?” quoth she, her eyebrows going up and her eyes beaming with surprise and delight. “Compliments from La Boulaye! But surely it is the end of the world. Tell me, mon ami,” she begged, greedily angling for more, “in what do I remind you of the sylvan goddess?”
“In the scantiness of your raiment, Citoyenne,” he answered acidly. “It sorts better with Arcadia than with Paris.”
Her eyebrows came down, her cheeks flushed with resentment and discomfiture. To cover this she flung her roses among the papers of his writing-table, and dropping into a chair she fanned herself vigorously.
“Citoyenne, you relieve my anxieties,” said he. “I feared that you stood in danger of freezing.”
“To freeze is no more than one might expect in your company,” she answered, stifling her anger.
He made no reply. He moved to the window, and stood drumming absently on the panes. He was inured to these invasions on the part of Cecile Deshaix and to the bold, unwomanly advances that repelled him. To-day his patience with her was even shorter than its wont, haply because when his official had announced a woman he had for a moment permitted himself to think that it might be Suzanne. The silence grew awkward, and at last he broke it.
“The Citizen Robespierre is well?” he asked, without turning.
“Yes,” said she, and for all that there was chagrin to spare in the glance with which she admired the back of his straight and shapely figure, she contrived to render her voice airily indifferent. “We were at the play last night.”