"Breakfast is at half past nine," said Mizzi, as she drew a curtain. "At what time does monsieur wish to be called?"
"Oh ... about nine o'clock ... thank you ... good night."
"Good night, monsieur," said the maid demurely as she tripped to the door, and then a lamentable accident occurred. It was due to the eccentricities of modern fashion. For several years Lionel had carried his handkerchief secreted in his cuff. As Mizzi stepped daintily past, the handkerchief, which had been working loose, fell to the ground. He and she stooped together for its recovery, and their heads approached nearer than was discreet. Her fingers reached the handkerchief first, and she restored it as they were rising. This was pardonable, but she ought not to have looked him in the face. Her eyes telegraphed "I like you," and his, something more. Without judicious reflection Lionel clasped her. "You are a perfect darling!" he whispered, "and I simply must kiss you—it is what you were made for."
"Oh, monsieur!" gasped Mizzi, "it is a scandal!"
"Yes," agreed Lionel, "I suppose it is. But it would be a graver scandal not to kiss such a bouquet of charms. There, my attractive morsel—another ... a butterfly salutation on your charming eyes, and ... good night."
Mizzi, with a stifled laugh, kissed him lightly in return, freed herself and escaped. Lionel, his sleepiness a thing of the past, sat down on the bed.
"Dash it!" he thought, wagging his head, "I oughtn't to have done that ... but it was exceedingly pleasant ... exceedingly pleasant ... yet I ought not to have yielded to temptation, for I was under the vague impression that I was in love with the maid's mistress. If so, I was disloyal, a creature of no account. Let us see whether there is not something to be said for the defense....
"Suppose I do love her—the mistress, I mean—I must not kiss her, because she is married. Doubtless it would be a fine thing to be loyal to the husband, the lady and the ideal—in short, neither kiss her nor any one else. In a word, become a sort of grass-bachelor.... A hard matter, for I am not cast in the ascetic mold, and Mizzi's lips are devilish tempting.... Suppose, now, the husband died (and I regret that I can not regard this contingency with disgust) and there were at least a sporting chance of my stepping into his shoes—oh! of course not at once, but later—later—why, then I could face permanent loyalty and temporary asceticism with a light heart.... But to go through the world refusing all sweets because my favorite sweet has been appropriated, surely that were foolish.
"Again, am I in love with her? Can one fall in love so suddenly, outside the realm of fiction? Is there not a great truth in the popular ballad that treats of 'a tiny seed of love'? Surely love is a seed, planted by chance or design—for example, by a match-making mama? The seed needs opportunity for gradual growth—the sun of frequent intercourse—the rain of timely separation—the fertilizer of presents of flowers and bonbons—before it can grow to a splendid harvest.... This harvest of mine can not be love; it must be passion. If so, it must be crushed.... She is too perfect to sully even in thought."
His brow grew gloomy, and he paced the room with feverish steps.