“Adrienne Lecouvreur,” Lettie had caught something of the weird tone of this great actress, and her raillery and mockery came out in little wild waves. She laughed at him, and at herself, and at men in general, and at love in particular. Whatever he said to her, she answered in the same mad clatter of French, speaking high and harshly. The sound was strange and uncomfortable. There was a painful perplexity in his brow, such as I often perceived afterwards, a sense of something hurting, something he could not understand.
“Well, well, well, well!” she exclaimed at last. “We must be mad sometimes, or we should be getting aged, Hein?”
“I wish I could understand,” he said plaintively.
“Poor dear!” she laughed. “How sober he is! And will you really go? They will think we’ve given you no supper, you look so sad.”
“I have supped—full” he began, his eyes dancing with a smile as he ventured upon a quotation. He was very much excited.
“Of horrors!” she cried completing it. “Now that is worse than anything I have given you.”
“Is it?” he replied, and they smiled at each other.
“Far worse,” she answered. They waited in suspense for some moments. He looked at her.
“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. Her voice was full of insurgent tenderness. He looked at her again, his eyes flickering. Then he took her hand. She pressed his fingers, holding them a little while. Then ashamed of her display of feeling, she looked down. He had a deep cut across his thumb.
“What a gash!” she exclaimed, shivering, and
