And she produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept
there, and held up for his inspection a grey-and-gold bound
book.
"MY novel--?" faltered he. (But the sight of it, in her
possession, in these particular circumstances, gave him a
thrill that was not a thrill of despair.) "Your novel," she repeated, smiling sweetly, and mimicking his
tone. Then she made a little moue. "Of course, I have known
that you were your friend Felix Wildmay, from the outset."
"Oh," said Peter, in a feeble sort of gasp, looking bewildered.
"You have known that from the outset?" And his brain seemed to
reel.
"Yes," said she, "of course. Where would the fun have been,
otherwise? And now you are going away, back to her shrine, to
renew your worship. I hope you will find the courage to offer
her your hand."
Peter's brain was reeling. But here was the opportunity of his
life.
"You give me courage," he pronounced, with sudden daring. "You
are in a position to help me with her. And since you know so
much, I should like you to know more. I should like to tell
you who she is."
"One should be careful where one bestows one's confidences,"
she warned him; but there was something in her eyes, there was
a glow, a softness, that seemed at the same time to invite
them.
"No," he said, "better than telling you who she is, I will tell
you where I first saw her. It was at the Francais, in
December, four years ago, a Thursday night, a subscription
night. She sat in one of the middle boxes of the first tier.
She was dressed in white. Her companions were an elderly
woman, English I think, in black, who wore a cap; and an old
man, with white moustache and imperial, who looked as if he
might be a French officer. And the play--."
He broke off, and looked at the Duchessa. She kept her eyes
down.
"Yes--the play?" she questioned, in a low voice, after a little
wait.
"The play was Monsieur Pailleron's 'Le monde ou l'on
s'ennuie'," he said, "Oh," said she, still keeping her eyes down. Her voice was
still very low. But there was something in it that made
Peter's heart leap.
"The next time I saw her," he began . . .
But then he had to stop. He felt as if the beating of his
heart must suffocate him.