utterly wretched and woebegone that he crossed to her swiftly and, taking her unwilling hands, tried to draw her right into his arms. But she fought him all at once with determination and something like fury.
“How dare you touch me. . . ! Leave me alone, please...!” “Cherie,” he pleaded, “I can’t bear to see you upset like this!”
“I’m not upset, I’m.... And how dare you come walking in here? This may be your house, but it’s my room—at least until I go away! And you’ve left the door standing wide to the corridor—everyone will know you’re here...!”
He returned to the door and shut it, carefully and quietly, and then he went back to her again. His expression was a trifle more grim.
“It doesn’t matter what everyone knows, because everyone will know soon that you’re going to be my wife! I would have let them know already, only I didn’t dare to do so when you looked so—so shocked and upset. . . !”
“Did you expect me to look anything other than shocked and upset?” she enquired with dangerous quietness.
“I don’t know.” He sank down on the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. It always had a tendency to wave a little, and when he had done with it it looked definitely unruly. His eyes, with rather a beaten expression in the beautiful brown depths, looked rather helplessly about the room. “Oh, Carol, what an end to our wonderful interlude!” he exclaimed.
“And that’s all it was,” she remarked, as coldly as before—”a wonderful interlude!”
He looked at her quietly, critically.
“Not this afternoon?”
“Yes—this afternoon!”
She turned away and went to her dressing-table. Mechanically she fumbled in a drawer for a handkerchief, and when she had found one scrubbed rather angrily at her eyes. Then, just as automatically—not caring that he was watching her in a curiously absorbed manner—she dabbed at her face with a powder-puff, and ran a quick comb through her hair. Then, feeling that she had donned at least partial armour, she turned back to him again, and walked to within a foot of him.
“Did you think it amusing, at first, to make me believe you were a friend of the Comte!”
He sighed.
“Perhaps it was amusing—just at first! You were so full of harsh criticism of Armand de Marsac, and I could tell you had made up your mind that he was of very little value in the scheme of things. I don’t think Marthe Giraud really intended to poison your mind against me—she and I have always been the greatest of friends, as a matter of fact—but I think she was probably a little indiscreet in her letters. And you based your opinion on that discreetness in her letters, and I thought it best that you should not find out immediately who I was. But later that very same evening I wanted to tell you!”
“But you didn’t do so... ! You didn’t do so the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that!” her face working a little. “Not even this afternoon...!”
“Darling, I was trying to get around to it, but somehow I—I kept putting it off!”
“And you asked me to marry Robert de Bergerac, who probably doesn’t exist at all! Or is it, by any chance, a part of your name?” faint hopefulness stirring in her.
He met the faint appeal in the dark violet eyes with rather a shamefaced shake of the head.
“No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t,” he had to admit. “I invented it on the spur of the moment. It seemed as good a name as any—
at that time!”
She bit her lip until a tiny spot of blood spurted.
“And the bookshop, and the flat at the top of a tall building?” For an instant a gleam of pure mischief appeared in his eyes, and even his lip twitched.
“Not Robert’s, I’m afraid. . . ! I do own a bookshop, but it happens to be a very well run and successful bookshop, and my flat is in a modern block with an outlook over the whole of Paris—or so it seems when you’re on the balcony outside my
“How dare you touch me. . . ! Leave me alone, please...!” “Cherie,” he pleaded, “I can’t bear to see you upset like this!”
“I’m not upset, I’m.... And how dare you come walking in here? This may be your house, but it’s my room—at least until I go away! And you’ve left the door standing wide to the corridor—everyone will know you’re here...!”
He returned to the door and shut it, carefully and quietly, and then he went back to her again. His expression was a trifle more grim.
“It doesn’t matter what everyone knows, because everyone will know soon that you’re going to be my wife! I would have let them know already, only I didn’t dare to do so when you looked so—so shocked and upset. . . !”
“Did you expect me to look anything other than shocked and upset?” she enquired with dangerous quietness.
“I don’t know.” He sank down on the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. It always had a tendency to wave a little, and when he had done with it it looked definitely unruly. His eyes, with rather a beaten expression in the beautiful brown depths, looked rather helplessly about the room. “Oh, Carol, what an end to our wonderful interlude!” he exclaimed.
“And that’s all it was,” she remarked, as coldly as before—”a wonderful interlude!”
He looked at her quietly, critically.
“Not this afternoon?”
“Yes—this afternoon!”
She turned away and went to her dressing-table. Mechanically she fumbled in a drawer for a handkerchief, and when she had found one scrubbed rather angrily at her eyes. Then, just as automatically—not caring that he was watching her in a curiously absorbed manner—she dabbed at her face with a powder-puff, and ran a quick comb through her hair. Then, feeling that she had donned at least partial armour, she turned back to him again, and walked to within a foot of him.
“Did you think it amusing, at first, to make me believe you were a friend of the Comte!”
He sighed.
“Perhaps it was amusing—just at first! You were so full of harsh criticism of Armand de Marsac, and I could tell you had made up your mind that he was of very little value in the scheme of things. I don’t think Marthe Giraud really intended to poison your mind against me—she and I have always been the greatest of friends, as a matter of fact—but I think she was probably a little indiscreet in her letters. And you based your opinion on that discreetness in her letters, and I thought it best that you should not find out immediately who I was. But later that very same evening I wanted to tell you!”
“But you didn’t do so... ! You didn’t do so the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that!” her face working a little. “Not even this afternoon...!”
“Darling, I was trying to get around to it, but somehow I—I kept putting it off!”
“And you asked me to marry Robert de Bergerac, who probably doesn’t exist at all! Or is it, by any chance, a part of your name?” faint hopefulness stirring in her.
He met the faint appeal in the dark violet eyes with rather a shamefaced shake of the head.
“No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t,” he had to admit. “I invented it on the spur of the moment. It seemed as good a name as any—
at that time!”
She bit her lip until a tiny spot of blood spurted.
“And the bookshop, and the flat at the top of a tall building?” For an instant a gleam of pure mischief appeared in his eyes, and even his lip twitched.
“Not Robert’s, I’m afraid. . . ! I do own a bookshop, but it happens to be a very well run and successful bookshop, and my flat is in a modern block with an outlook over the whole of Paris—or so it seems when you’re on the balcony outside my
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