, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his
hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind. Gaston Belward
was different--he had befriended her father. She had not singular
scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was not a
Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on
the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a
man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting.
But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a
lady.

A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn't
it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man's
company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who has
a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours? She
knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt
instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English
world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris,
her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who
entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that
were possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she
rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper
with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when
she saw what the great folk did.

And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood
up--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly
by instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from
something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? He
would go back; she would remain. It didn't matter.--Yet, why should she
lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that girl
in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything in
her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine,
the dompteuse?

One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her
to see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him
riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon
or evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He
had furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but
pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants
and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse.