The words were of little meaning, but the tone was significant, and a titter went round the room. Sutherland’s face darkened.
‘I presume that your experience of the sex is large?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Gentlemen of your nation are generally fortunate——-’
‘I am no exception to the rule,’ answered Gavrolles. ‘My whole life has been une bonne fortune! But look you, as I say, I am an artiste—in affairs of gallantry as in all others. I do not suffer these things to cloud the equanimity of my artiste’s soul. When I have plucked a rose—observe! I smell it; I wear it a little while; then I take it from my button-hole and throw it away. You understand?’
‘I think so,’ said Sutherland, rising to his feet. ‘Pray does it ever occur to you what becomes of the rose afterwards! If it is trampled underfoot, who is responsible?’
‘Pardon me, that is the rose’s affair, not mine. Au reste, roses must bloom and fade; Art, Art—for which I live—is imperishable and divine.’
It was hard to say whether he was jesting or in earnest, for his manner was peculiar, a combination of mock-enthusiasm and flippant audacity. But despite his appearance of sang-froid, something in the face and manner of Sutherland thrilled him, and reminded him of an unpleasant meeting many years before.
He bowed profoundly as Sutherland prepared to go, and held out his hand—which the other did not seem to notice.
‘Au revoir!’he said gaily; ‘and au revoir, Monsieur Crieff. My friend Ponto will convert you presently; ah, yes!’
In another minute Crieff and Sutherland were in the street. The latter was very pale, and trembled violently.
‘My dear Sutherland, what is the matter?’