Herriard put back the thought, still it had risen to his mind that Gastineau’s speech was not quite genuine. The words, graceful enough in themselves, relating to his interest in his pupil’s advancement were glibly and perfunctorily spoken; an insincere formula, like a doctor’s expression of sorrow at a patient’s ill-health.
“Anyhow,” he said, “I was not particularly elated at what might be considered a grudging verdict, and as I had no other news it did not seem very vital to hurry to bring you that.”
“I see,” Gastineau responded coldly, his manner plainly showing he hardly accepted the excuse as valid. “So you are going to dine with the Countess. I hope, my dear boy, you are not really becoming épris in that quarter.”
“I dare say I am,” Herriard replied quietly. “But then I hold a different opinion of her from yours.”
Gastineau lay very still, and his face was white, deadly white. “You will regret it,” he said, just moving his lips, in the absence or repression of all feeling; Herriard could not be sure which.
“I think not; I am sure I shall never regret it,” he returned, with conviction.
“And I,” Gastineau rejoined, in a stronger but still hard, passionless tone, “am as absolutely convinced that you will.”
Herriard took a step toward him, holding out his hand. “I had better say good-night. We do not seem likely to agree on this, and we must not quarrel.”
Gastineau raised a listless hand. “Good-night,” he responded, with a brooding significance. “You will go on your own way, then; but I have warned you.”
A light of vague, horrible suspicion came into Herriard’s eyes.