"And if he were your lover?" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.
"Oh! heavens, what bliss!" said I; "but do not be inhuman, Miss Fanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing poor outcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise."
"You like him, then?"
"As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers."
Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; she could then readily credit that they were mine too.
"Now for Isidore," I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see him than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.
"Alfred was admitted here to-night," said she, "through the influence of his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him, can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening, and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him and then at the other, and madden them both."
"But that other--where is he? Show me Isidore."
"I don't like."
"Why not?"
"I am ashamed of him."
"For what reason?"
"Because--because" (in a whisper) "he has such--such whiskers, orange --red--there now!"
"The murder is out," I subjoined. "Never mind, show him all the same; I engage not to faint."
She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.
"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor."
"There is no draught, Dr. John," said I, turning.
"She takes cold so easily," he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme kindness. "She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl."
"Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. "I want no shawl."
"Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated."
"Always preaching," retorted she; "always coddling and admonishing."
The answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart was hurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, he turned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.
"She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her," said I, folding it well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her arms. "Is that Isidore?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.
She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.
"Is that Isidore?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given her a dozen.
"C'est lui-même," said she. "How coarse he is, compared with the Colonel-Count! And then--oh ciel!--the whiskers!"