"Suppose he should return in the mean time?"
She shrugged. "You seem quite capable of caring for yourself, m'sieu'. I should not wish to be in his shoes, that is all. But there is little danger. And now I must leave you."
"Just a moment," he said, taking her two hands in his. "You have seen my face. Don't you think I wish to see yours?"
Her breath caught at the tone of his voice. "Not yet. Please! When I return—when you have held her in your arms and made your peace. Then, perhaps, if you wish—but not until then." She pressed his fingers meaningly, and he thrilled.
"You haven't spoken my name, either," said he. "Won't you tell me that you—like me?"
"I—like you, Cousin Emile," said she; then, in a voice that told him she was blushing rosily, "and what name do you give to me?"
Roly's wits came to his rescue barely in time; with an air of deepest tenderness, that was not all assumed, he said: "I haven't dared acknowledge the name my heart has given you, even to myself. It is—"
"No, no!" she laughed, tremulously. "Call me Madelon."
"Madelon, Desire of my Dreams." He raised her hand to his lips. "Until you give me leave to lift your mask I kiss these dimpled fingers."
It was plain that his boldness did not altogether displease her, for she paused reluctantly upon the threshold. Her eyes were shining, although her mask smiled at him vacuously as she said: