Vivian's sky-parlor, which seemed to Bernard the
brightest and quietest little habitation he had ever known.
His hostess came rustling in at last; she seemed agitated; she knocked
over with the skirt of her dress a little gilded chair which was
reflected in the polished parquet as in a sheet of looking-glass. Mrs.
Vivian had a fixed smile--she hardly knew what to say.
"I found your address at the banker's," said Bernard. "Your maid, at
Blanquais, refused to give it to me."
Mrs. Vivian gave him a little look--there was always more or less of
it in her face--which seemed equivalent to an entreaty that her
interlocutor should spare her.
"Maids are so strange," she murmured; "especially the French!"
It pleased Bernard for the moment not to spare her, though he felt a
sort of delight of kindness for her.
"Your going off from Blanquais so suddenly, without leaving me any
explanation, any clue, any message of any sort--made me feel at first as
if you did n't wish that I should look you up. It reminded me of the way
you left Baden--do you remember?--three years ago."
"Baden was so charming--but one could n't stay forever," said Mrs.
Vivian.
"I had a sort of theory one could. Our life was so pleasant that it
seemed a shame to break the spell, and if no one had moved I am sure we
might be sitting there now.
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