"My father will be sorry--" she began.
"That is hardly the question," he interrupted; "I was thinking of
your displeasure. But I have an excuse, I assure you. I only ask a
moment to tell you that I have heard from Konigsberg that Charles
Darragon is in good health there, and is moving forward with the
advance-guard to the frontier."
"You are kind to come so soon," answered Mathilde, and there was an
odd note of disappointment in her voice. De Casimir must have heard
it, for he glanced at her again with a gleam of surprise in his
eyes.
"That is my excuse, Mademoiselle," he said with a tentative
emphasis, as if he were feeling his way. He was an opportunist with
all the quickness of one who must live by his wits among others
existing on the same uncertain fare. He saw her flush, and again he
hesitated as a wayfarer may hesitate when he finds an easy road
where he had expected to climb a hill. What was the meaning of it?
he seemed to ask himself.
"Charles does not interest you so much as he interests your sister?"
he suggested.
"He has never interested me much," she replied indifferently. She
did not ask him to sit down. It would not have been etiquette in an
age when women were by some odd misjudgment considered incapable of
managing their own hearts.
"Is that because he is in love, Mademoiselle?" inquired de Casimir
with a guarded laugh.
"Perhaps so."
She did not look at him. De Casimir had not missed this time.
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