And she, for her part, was under the spell of his greeting. She wanted never to forget his face until its pallor and its transfiguration, until its significance, were fixed upon her heart. He had believed her gone—and he cared. He answered her question unconsciously without speaking a word. If he loved her ever so little, she would win the rest. She would supersede any other woman in the world with him. She turned with a smile to find his eyes fixed on her.
“Let’s go in to dinner as we are, Maurice, it’s so late.”
Evremond came to her, put his arms around her; for the thousandth part of a second he felt her shrink. He drew her close. Under his touch her face suffused like a bride’s. He saw now, as he held her, the marks of tears on her eyes; the illuminating of her spirit had concealed them until now, but the human touch brought her to life.
The sharp drawing of the cord, as the curtains were pulled back between salon and dining room, made them start apart as the maitre d’hôtel summoned them to a repast already two hours late.
“Madame est servie.”
The Dog Star
By Joseph C. Lincoln
