"You are too clever for me, Chevalier."
"No doubt I am. We have nothing to do with a woman's brains—God help them. But we are not all brain. That is the tragedy."
She met his eyes and hated them for their sudden animal frankness. It was probable that for the moment this rather sentimental girl understood De Rothan and the type of manhood that he represented, a manhood that could be passionate and unscrupulous, and yet could despise itself for being passionate. "To fret oneself about this schoolgirl!"—that was what he was saying to himself.
Nance shrank into herself, and thought of Jasper, without realising that De Rothan was in many ways the finer man. He was a well-polished rogue, and had done, many clever things in his time. Jasper Benham would be remarkable mainly as the father of a family. But Nance's thoughts did not run in this direction.
Jean had been dismissed by De Rothan. He reappeared at the door and said something in French. De Rothan pushed his chair back and rose.
"Miss Nance, you will pardon me?"
She felt her face crimsoning as she saw her opportunity rushing upon her.
"Yes."
He went out, closing the door after him. Nance was up and unfolding the packet with shaking and ineffectual fingers. De Rothan's silver tankard was half full. She slipped round the table and emptied the powder into it, and, crumpling up the paper, thrust it back into the bosom of her dress.
She was shaking like an old lady with the palsy, and trying desperately to hide it, when De Rothan returned. He came in with a casual air, humming the same song as he had hummed in the gallery. He gave one sharp sidelong glance at Nance, and smiled.