He got up, put his pipe into a case, and the case into his pocket, and said:
"Hermione, if the analyst may have a word—"
"Yes—now."
"Don't let Monsieur Delarey, whatever his character, see now, or in the future, the dirty little beggar staring at the angel. I use your own preposterously inflated phrase. Men can't stand certain things and remain true to the good in their characters. Humble adoration from a woman like you would be destructive of blessed virtues in Antinous. Think well of yourself, my friend, think well of your sphinxlike eyes. Haven't they beauty? Doesn't intellect shoot its fires from them? Mon Dieu! Don't let me see any prostration to-night, or I shall put three grains of something I know—I always call it Turkish delight—into the Turkish coffee of Monsieur Delarey, and send him to sleep with his fathers."
Hermione got up and held out her hands to him impulsively.
"Bless you, Emile!" she said. "You're a—"
There was a gentle tap on the door. Hermione went to it and opened it. Selim stood outside with a pencil note on a salver.
"Ha! The little Townly has been!" said Artois.
"Yes, it's from her. You told her, Selim, that I was with Monsieur Artois?"
"Yes, madame."