“It’s very curious,” he remarked, after a pause.
He was a trifle annoyed that she should have approached such a delicate matter so bluntly, although he was convinced more than ever that the woman who was speaking thus loved him.
“Why go to her? Why not remain here amid these lovely surroundings and try to forget her?” the girl suggested.
“Impossible! I love her, and will not hear her disparaged,” he replied, with more impatience than politeness, as he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “Don’t speak again upon the subject, please; we shall never agree. Come, let’s turn back.”
Murmuring an apology, she drew herself up from her leaning position upon the low rail, and together they pursued their way in silence along the lonely path. As they walked, a cheerful freshness was in the air. The wind was hardly perceptible, because it blew off the shore and was lost in passing through the wood whose solemn shadows crowned the cliffside.
But while this exchange of confidence was in progress, Jack Egerton’s actions, viewed by even a casual observer, would have appeared strange.
As soon as Dolly and his host had departed, he rose from the writing-table, and, flinging himself into a chair before the fire, abandoned himself to reflections that appeared particularly gloomy. He sat almost motionless for fully half an hour, when Jacob entered with a letter.
“Whom is it for?” asked the artist.
“For the master, sir,” replied the old man, placing it upon the table, and retiring.
From where he sat, Egerton noticed a foreign stamp upon the envelope. He rose, and took it in his hand. A glance sufficed to tell it was from Valérie.