"My dear Philippe--why not?"
"Why not?"
"Why not? She asks why not!" The Vicomte held out his hands, as though he appealed to the eternal verities. "Traîtresse! Once more is woman false and man betrayed!"
The Vicomte's gesture was worthy of the tragic stage--in France. The lady still held out her hand, and still she smiled.
"My dear Philippe--try comedy!"
"Comedy? Ah, yes, I will try comedy--the comedy of r-r-revenge!" The Vicomte distinctly rolled his r's. He turned to Mr. Lovell. "I will kill you, even though for killing you, by the law of England, I am hanged. Victor, where is my hat?"
The Vicomte put this question to his friend with a peculiar coldness. M. Berigny shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? It is not a question of a hat."
"As you say, it is not a question of a hat. It is a question"--the Vicomte moved towards Mr. Lovell--"of that!"
He raised his hand with the intention of striking the artist on the cheek. Mr. Lovell never flinched; but the lady, rushing forward, caught her husband by the wrist. She looked at him, still with laughter in her eyes.