‘How Biblical you are getting,’ said the young man, ironically; ‘but kindly stop speaking in parables, and tell me what position we are to occupy to each other. As formerly?’
‘My God, no!’ she flashed out suddenly.
‘So much the better,’ he answered, bowing. ‘We will obliterate the last year from our memories, and I will meet you to-night for the first time since you left Ballarat. Of course,’ he went on, rather anxiously, ‘you have told Madame nothing?’
‘Only what suited me,’ replied the girl, coldly, stung by the coldness and utter heartlessness of this man.
‘Oh!’ with a smile. ‘Did it include my name?’
‘No,’ curtly.
‘Ah!’ with a long indrawn breath, ‘you are more sensible than I gave you credit for.’
Kitty rose to her feet and crossed rapidly over to where he sat calm and smiling.
‘Gaston Vandeloup!’ she hissed in his ear, while her face was quite distorted by the violence of her passion, ‘when I met you I was an innocent girl—you ruined me, and then cast me off as soon as you grew weary of your toy. I thought you loved me, and,’ with a stifled sob, ‘God help me, I love you still.’
‘Yes, my Bebe,’ he said, in a caressing tone, taking her hand.
‘No! no,’ she cried, wrenching them away, while an angry spot of colour glowed on her cheek, ‘I loved you as you were—not as you are now—we are done with sentiment, M. Vandeloup,’ she said, sneering, ‘and now our relations to one another will be purely business ones.’
He bowed and smiled.
‘So glad you understand the position,’ he said, blandly; ‘I see the age of miracles is not yet past when a woman can talk sense.’
‘You won’t disturb me with your sneers,’ retorted the girl, glaring fiercely at him out of the gathering gloom in the room; ‘I am not the innocent girl I once was.’
‘It is needless to tell me that,’ he said, coarsely.
She drew herself up at the extreme insult.
‘Have a care, Gaston,’ she muttered, hurriedly, ‘I know more about your past life than you think.’
He rose from his seat and approached his face, now white as her own, to hers.
‘What do you know?’ he asked, in a low, passionate voice.
‘Enough to be dangerous to you,’ she retorted, defiantly.
They both looked at one another steadily, but the white face of the woman did not blench before the scintillations of his eyes.
‘What you know I don’t know,’ he said, steadily; ‘but whatever it is, keep it to yourself, or—,’ catching her wrist.
‘Or what?’ she asked, boldly.
He threw her away from him with a laugh, and the sombre fire died out of his eyes.
‘Bah!’ he said, gaily, ‘our comedy is turning into a tragedy; I am as foolish as you; I think,’ significantly, ‘we understand one another.’
‘Yes, I think we do,’ she answered, calmly, the colour coming back to her cheek. ‘Neither of us are to refer to the past, and we both go on our different roads unhindered.’
‘Mademoiselle Marchurst,’ said Vandeloup, ceremoniously, ‘I am delighted to meet you after a year’s absence—come,’ with a gay laugh, ‘let us begin the comedy thus, for here,’ he added quickly, as the door opened, ‘here comes the spectators.’
‘Well, young people,’ said Madame’s voice, as she came slowly into the room, ‘you are all in the dark; ring the bell for lights, M. Vandeloup.’
‘Certainly, Madame,’ he answered, touching the electric button, ‘Miss Marchurst and myself were renewing our former friendship.’
‘How do you think she is looking?’ asked Madame, as the servant came in and lit the gas.
‘Charming,’ replied Vandeloup, looking at the dainty little figure in white standing under the blaze of the chandelier; ‘she is more beautiful than ever.’
Kitty made a saucy little curtsey, and burst into a musical laugh.
‘He is just the same, Madame,’ she said merrily to the tall, grave woman in black velvet, who stood looking at her affectionately, ‘full of compliments, and not meaning one; but when is dinner to be ready?’ pathetically, ‘I’m dying of starvation.’
‘I hope you have peaches, Madame,’ said Vandeloup, gaily; ‘the first time I met Mademoiselle she was longing for peaches.’
‘I am unchanged in that respect,’ retorted Kitty, brightly; ‘I adore peaches still.’
‘I am just waiting for Mr Calton,’ said Madame Midas, looking at her watch; ‘he ought to be here by now.’
‘Is that the lawyer, Madame?’ asked Vandeloup.
‘Yes,’ she replied, quietly, ‘he is a most delightful man.’
‘So I have heard,’ answered Vandeloup, nonchalantly, ‘and he had something to do with a former owner of this house, I think.’
‘Oh, don’t talk of that,’ said Mrs Villiers, nervously; ‘the first time I took the house, I heard all about the Hansom Cab murder.’
‘Why, Madame, you are not nervous,’ said Kitty, gaily.
‘No, my dear,’ replied the elder, quietly, ‘but I must confess that for some reason or another I have been a little upset since coming here; I don’t like being alone.’
‘You shall never be that,’ said Kitty, fondly nestling to her.
‘Thank you, puss,’ said Madame, tapping her cheek; ‘but I am nervous,’ she said, rapidly; ‘at night especially. Sometimes I have to get Selina to come into my room and stay all night.’
‘Madame Midas nervous,’ thought Vandeloup to himself; ‘then I can guess the reason; she is afraid of her husband coming back to her.’
Just at this moment the servant announced Mr Calton, and he entered, with his sharp, incisive face, looking clever and keen.
‘I must apologise for being late, Mrs Villiers,’ he said, shaking hands with his hostess; ‘but business, you know, the pleasure of business.’
‘Now,’ said Madame, quickly, ‘I hope you have come to the business of pleasure.’
‘Very epigrammatic, my dear lady,’ said Calton, in his high, clear voice; ‘pray introduce me.’
Madame did so, and they all went to dinner, Madame with Calton and Kitty following with Vandeloup.
‘This,’ observed Calton, when they were all seated at the dinner table, ‘is the perfection of dining; for we are four, and the guests, according to an epicure, should never be less than the Graces nor greater than the Muses.’
And a very merry little dinner it was. All four were clever talkers, and Vandeloup and Calton being pitted against one another, excelled themselves; witty remarks, satirical sayings, and well-told stories were constantly coming from their lips, and they told their stories as their own and did not father them on Sydney Smith.
‘If Sydney Smith was alive,’ said Calton, in reference to this, ‘he would be astonished at the number of stories he did not tell.’
‘Yes,’ chimed in Vandeloup, gaily, ‘and astounded at their brilliancy.’
‘After all,’ said Madame, smiling, ‘he’s a sheet-anchor for some