She knew Guy well enough to perceive that his exquisite politeness only concealed a warlike irony.  She did not reply, but stood smiling in front of the fireplace and warmed her toes at the light flames that leapt about the logs.

“You are exceedingly polite,” she said at last.  “On honor, I like you very much—­you laugh?  I say very much—­Yes, in spite—­In no case, have you had aught to complain of me.”

She half turned, resting her left hand on the edge of the velvet-covered mantel, and cast a furtive, gentle glance at Lissac that recalled a multitude of happy incidents.

“I have never complained,” said the young man, “and I have frequently expressed my thanks!”

Marianne laughed at the discreet manner so ceremoniously adopted by Lissac.

“You are silly, come!—­We have a great liking for each other, and it is in the name of that affection that I come to ask a service.”

“You have only to speak, my dear Marianne,” Lissac answered, as if he had not noticed the intimacy her words expressed.

He affected a cold politeness; Marianne replied to him with apparent renewed tenderness.  She looked at him for some time as if she hesitated and feared, her glance penetrating Lissac’s, and begging with a tearful petition that wished to kindle a flame in his eyes.

“What I have to say to you will take some time.  I am afraid—­”

“Of what?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  You are in a hurry?  I interfere with you, perhaps!”

“Not the least in the world.  I breakfast at the Club, take a turn in the Bois, and drop in at the Mirlitons to see the opening.  You see that I should be entitled to very little merit in sacrificing to you a perfectly wasted day.”

“Is the present Exposition of the Mirlitons well spoken of?” asked Marianne, indifferently.

“Very.  It is a collection of things that are to be sold for the benefit of a deceased artist.  Would you like to go there at four o’clock?”

“No, thanks!—­And I repeat, my dear Guy, that I will not hinder you, you know, if I have been indiscreet in giving you an appointment!—­”

She seemed to be mechanically toying with the silk rosettes in the little vase; she picked them up and let them drop from her fingers like grains.

“These are yours?” she asked.—­“Come near that I may put them on!”

She went to Guy, smilingly, and resting her body against his for its entire length, she paused for a moment while she held the lapel of his jacket, and from head to foot she gazed at him with a look that seemed to impregnate him with odor and turned him pale.

“What an idea, Marianne!  I do not wear these ribbons now.”

“A childish one.  I remember that I was the first to place in this buttonhole some foreign decoration that Monsieur de Rosas brought you—­”

She pronounced this name boldly, as if she would bring on the battle.