THE UNSPEAKABLE GENTLEMAN
XVIII.
She still stood looking at the pistols on the table. Was she thinking, as I was, of the irony, and the comedy and the tragedy that had been so strangely blended in the last hour? Slowly she turned and faced me, her slender fingers tugging aimlessly at her handerchief. For a moment her eyes met mine. Then she looked away, and the color had deepened in her cheeks.
"So," said Mademoiselle, "It is almost over. Are you not glad, Monsieur, that it is finished?"
The wick of a candle had dropped to the wax, and was spluttering fitfully. Mechanically I moved to fix it.
"No," I said, "I am not glad."
"Not glad? Surely you are glad it has ended so. Surely you are glad your father—"
"No," I said, and my voice was so much louder than I had intended that the sound of it in the quiet room made me stop abruptly. She looked up at me, a little startled.
"At least Monsieur is frank," she said.
[259]
