Igraine forced a titter.
“I suppose you are a poet, sir.”
“Only a fool, madame.”
“Ah!”
“All poets are fools.”
“How do you contrive that?”
“Because they are for ever praising women.”
“And yet you are a poet, my lord!”
“How could I be else, madame, since I am a man?”
Gorlois took a deep breath, and smiled at the dark yews, sombre and mysterious behind their belt of glowing roses. Igraine was watching his face in some uneasiness. It gave the profile of a strong, stark man, whose every feature spelt alert daring and great hardihood of mind. There was a keen, half-cruel look about the tight lips and impatient eyes. She was contrasting him with Pelleas in her heart, and the dark, brooding face of lion-like mould that so haunted her left little glory for Gorlois’s lighter, leaner countenance.