with chic and abandon
very fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air
and sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her
in "Lucia," and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted,
showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling
chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's.

Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new
life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could
still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had
come to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle
Cerise said to Ian at last:

"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no
matter."

She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he
did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there
in his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time:
"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in
you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and
your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol
or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing
more. I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor
sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more."

Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been
good friends. He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his
fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him,
even at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there
was something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have
come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and
have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at
times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in
a grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her,
and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had
rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause.
She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his
horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no,
now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in
deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she