“Because you do not believe in the magnetism of a fixed desire.”

“No, I do not believe any such thing, when, opposed to such a desire, there is a strong, firm will,” said Jacqueline, her eyes burning.

“Ah!” he murmured, and he might have been supposed to be really moved, so much his look changed, “do not abuse your power over me—­do not make me wretched; if you could only understand—­”

She made a swift movement to rejoin Madame Strahlberg, but that lady was already coming toward them with the same careless ease with which she had left them together.

“Well! you have each found an old acquaintance,” she said, gayly.  “I beg your pardon, my loveliest, but I had to speak to some old friends, and ask them to join us to-morrow evening.  We shall sup at the restaurant of the Grand Hotel, after the opera—­for, I did not tell you before, you will have the good luck to hear Patti.  Monsieur de Cymier, we shall expect you.  Au revoir.”

He had been on the point of asking leave to walk home with them.  But there was something in Jacqueline’s look, and in her stubborn silence, that deterred him.  He thought it best to leave a skilful advocate to plead his cause before he continued a conversation which had not begun satisfactorily.  Not that Gerard de Cymier was discouraged by the behavior of Jacqueline.  He had expected her to be angry at his defection, and that she would make him pay for it; but a little skill on his part, and a little credulity on hers, backed by the intervention of a third party, might set things right.

One moment he lingered to look at her, admiring her as she stood in the light of the dying sun, as beautiful in her plain dress and her indignant paleness, while she looked far out to sea, that she might not be obliged to look at him, as she had been when he had known her in prosperity.

At that moment he knew she hated him, but it would be an additional delight to overcome that feeling.

The two women, when he left them, continued walking on the terrace side by side, without a word.  Wanda watched her companion out of the corners of her eyes, and hummed an air to herself to break the silence.  She saw a storm gathering under Jacqueline’s black eyebrows, and knew that sharp arrows were likely to shoot forth from those lips which several times had opened, though not a word had been uttered, probably through fear of saying too little or too much.

At last she made some trifling comment on the view, explaining something about pigeon-shooting.

“Wanda,” interrupted Jacqueline, “did you not know what happened once?”

“Happened, how?  About what?” asked Madame Strahlberg, with an air of innocence.

“I am speaking of the way Monsieur de Cymier treated me.”

“Bah!  He was in love with you.  Who didn’t know it?  Every one could see that.  It was all the more reason why you should have been glad to meet him.”