His
air of candid confidence had met with a quick response. He laughed
again and moved towards the door. Mathilde stood motionless, and
although she said no word, nor by any gesture bade him stay, he
stopped on the threshold and turned again towards her.
"It was my conscience," he said, looking at her over his shoulder,
"that bade me go."
Her face and her averted eyes asked why, but her straight lips were
silent.
"Because I cannot claim to be more interesting than Charles
Darragon," he hazarded. "And you, Mademoiselle, confess that you
have no tolerance for a man who is in love."
"I have no tolerance for a man who is weakened by love. He should
be strengthened and hardened by it."
"To--?"
"To do a man's work in the world," said Mathilde coldly.
De Casimir was standing by the open door. He closed it with his
foot. He was professedly a man alert for the chance of a moment,
which he was content to grasp without pausing to look ahead. Should
there be difficulties yet unperceived, these in turn might present
an opportunity to be seized by the quick-witted.
"Then you would admit, Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "that there
may be good in a love that fights continually against ambition, and-
-does not prevail."
Mathilde did not answer at once. There was an odd suggestion of
antagonism in their attitude towards each other--not irreconcilable,
the poets tell us, with love--but this is assuredly not the Love
that comes from Heaven and will go back there to live through
eternity.
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