“But you never come to us, Caron,” she returned, in a voice of mild complaint. “You have not been once to Duplay's since your return from Belgium. And you seem different, too, since your journey to the army.” She rose now and approached him. “What is it, cher Caron?” she asked, her voice a very caress of seductiveness, her eyes looking up into his. “Is something troubling you?”
“Troubling me?” he echoed, musingly. “No. But then I am a busy man, Citoyenne.”
A wave of red seemed to sweep across her face, and her heel beat the parquet floor.
“If you call me Citoyenne again I shall strike you,” she threatened him.
He looked down at her, and she had the feeling that behind the inscrutable mask of his countenance he was laughing at her.
“It would sort well with your audacity,” he made answer coolly.
She felt in that moment that she hated him, and it was a miracle that she did not do as she had threatened, for with all her meek looks she owned a very fiercest of tempers. She drew back a pace or two, and her glance fell.
“I shall not trouble you in future,” she vowed. “I shall not come here again.”
He bowed slightly.
“I applaud the wisdom of your resolve—Cit—Cecile. The world, as I have said, is censorious.”