“Monsieur Martin? Very well, thank you.”
She put down the glass of wine which she was about to raise to her lips. For nearly an hour she had not thought of Martin. She felt sundered from him by many seas and continents. Since seeing him through what scorching adventures had she not passed? She had changed. The world had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again. Tears came into her eyes. Lucilla, observing them, smiled.
“You like Monsieur Martin?”
“Everybody likes him; he is so gentle,” said Félise.
“But is that what women look for in a man?” asked Lucilla. “Doesn’t she want some one strong to lean on? Something to appeal to the imagination? Something more panache?”
Félise thought of Lucien Viriot and his cavalry plume and shivered. No. She did not want panache. Martin’s quiet, simple ways, she knew not why, were worth all the clanking of all the sabres in the world put together.
“That depends on temperament, mademoiselle,” said Félise, in French.
Lucilla laughingly exclaimed: “You dear little mouse. I suppose a tom-cat frightens you to death.”
But Félise was only listening with her outer ears. “I am very fond of cats,” she replied simply.
Whereupon Lucilla laughed again with quick understanding.