The door was closed, and Mrs. Tennison waited with me in silence. The window of the room was open and through it came the sweet scent of the roses and climbing jasmine, with the buzz of the summer insects and the chatter of the birds, for the house was high up on that hill above the great silk-weaving capital of the Rhône.
I rose and looked out upon the garden, so well ordered, for the Professor was, it seemed, a lover of roses, the blossoms running riot everywhere.
Suddenly, as we remained in silence, we heard Gabrielle’s voice raised until she shouted fierce defiant words in English:
“No!” she shrieked. “It was not that—not that! You try and fix upon me a deed that I did not do! Why should you do this—why should you do this!”
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” we heard the Professor say in a quiet, calm tone. “Pardon. Please! I do not allege it. I have only asked a simple question.”
“Your question is insulting, doctor!” declared my beloved loudly. “Why should you insinuate such a thing?”
“Mademoiselle, I insinuate nothing,” replied the Professor. “I am endeavouring to ascertain the exact state of your mental balance. Your anger is, in itself, a most gratifying feature. A thousand pardons if you feel that I have insulted you,” he added with the extreme politeness of his race.
Then, through the folding doors which divided the apartments, we heard him say:
“Will you please give me both your hands, and look directly into my eyes?”