“Come, be sensible,” she merely replied; and taking a Chinese fan from the chimney-piece, she resumed—­as much at her ease as though she had been sitting in her own drawing-room:  “You know we had a rehearsal this morning.  I’m afraid I have not made a very happy choice in Madame Berthier.  Her ‘Mathilda’ is a snivelling, insufferable affair.  You remember that delightful soliloquy when she addresses the purse—­’Poor little thing, I kissed you a moment ago’?  Well! she declaims it like a school-girl who has learnt a complimentary greeting.  It’s so vexatious!”

“And what about Madame de Guiraud?” he asked, as he drew his chair closer and took her hand.

“Oh! she is perfection.  I’ve discovered in her a ‘Madame de Lery,’ with some sarcasm and animation.”

While speaking she surrendered her hand to the young man, and he kissed it between her sentences without her seeming to notice it.

“But the worst of it all, you know,” she resumed, “is your absence.  In the first place, you might say something to Madame Berthier; and besides, we shall not be able to get a good ensemble if you never come.”

He had now succeeded in passing his arm round her waist.

“But as I know my part,” he murmured.

“Yes, that’s all very well; but there’s the arrangement of the scenes to look after.  It is anything but obliging on your part to refuse to give us three or four mornings.”

She was unable to continue, for he was raining a shower of kisses on her neck.  At this she could feign ignorance no longer, but pushed him away, tapping him the while with the Chinese fan which she still retained in her hand.  Doubtless, she had registered a vow that she would not allow any further familiarity.  Her face was now flushed by the heat reflected from the fire, and her lips pouted with the very expression of an inquisitive person whom her feelings astonish.  Moreover, she was really getting frightened.

“Leave me alone,” she stammered, with a constrained smile.  “I shall get angry.”

But he imagined that he had moved her, and once more took hold of her hands.  To her, however, a voice seemed to be crying out, “No!” It was she herself protesting before she had even answered her own heart.

“No, no!” she said again.  “Let me go; you are hurting me!” And thereupon, as he refused to release her, she twisted herself violently from his grasp.  She was acting in obedience to some strange emotion; she felt angry with herself and with him.  In her agitation some disjointed phrases escaped her lips.  Yes, indeed, he rewarded her badly for her trust.  What a brute he was!  She even called him a coward.  Never in her life would she see him again.  But he allowed her to talk on, and ran after her with a wicked and brutal laugh.  And at last she could do no more than gasp in the momentary refuge which she had sought behind a chair.  They were there, gazing at one another, her face transformed by shame and his by passion, when a noise broke through the stillness.  At first they did not grasp its significance.  A door had opened, some steps crossed the room, and a voice called to them: