“Why not Aristide when we are alone? Why not, Henriette?”
He too had the sense of adventure, and his eyes were more than usually compelling and his voice more seductive. For some reason or other, undivined by Aristide—over-excitement of nerves, perhaps—she burst into tears.
“Henriette! Henriette, ne pleurez pas.”
His arm crept round her—he knew not how; her head sank on his shoulder, she knew not why—faithlessness to her lord was as far from her thoughts as murder or arson; but for one poor little moment in a lifetime it is good to weep on someone’s shoulder and to have someone’s sympathetic arm around one’s waist.
“Pauvre petite femme! And is it love she is pining for?”
She sobbed; he lifted her chin with his free hand—and what less could mortal apostle do?—he kissed her on her wet cheek.
A bellow like that of an angry bull caused them to start asunder. They looked up, and there was Mr. Ducksmith within a few yards of them, his face aflame, his rabbit’s eyes on fire with rage. He advanced, shook his fists in their faces.
“I’ve caught you! At last, after twenty years, I’ve caught you!”
“Monsieur,” cried Aristide, starting up, “allow me to explain.”
He swept Aristide aside like an intercepting willow-branch, and poured forth a torrent of furious speech upon his wife.