“They told you the truth,” he says calmly, but, lax as he is, his conscience gives a throb of compunction at denying the existence of Zai--Zai, who loves him with every inch of her heart. “But I _must_ go now. I have been here too long already, Marguerite,” he adds rather abruptly. “You are going?” she asks regretfully, and a tear glistens on her lash. “Do you know I believe I shall _never_ see you again. Is this the only time--tell me the truth, it will be kinder!--that my eyes will look on your face?” “No. Of _course_ we shall meet again.” “When?” she asks fervently. “When? In a very few days, I trust.” “Will you come here on Wednesday night to supper? Ah, _do_! Let me have some date to look forward to! Yet, no! Do not come! What use is it for us to meet again? Are you not as far removed from me as heaven from earth? as respectability from unrespectability? Say, is there not an obstacle between us two that we cannot surmount?” Her lips are quivering. Her heart beats so loudly that he can almost count its throbs. Truly there is no acting in this. Marguerite has fallen in love with him at first sight, as he has done with her. “There is no obstacle between us,” he whispers, once more denying his wife. “I will come on Wednesday.” “You will?” She holds out her hands to him, and as he clasps them closely, he bends his head and his lips nearly rest upon hers. But it is only a passing madness. He is not quite lost yet. And Marguerite, as she looks up at him hastily, sees no trace of passion in his face. When she is alone she kisses eagerly the hands he has held in his. “He will come again, and again!” she says aloud. “He is not a man to stop at anything if inclination leads him. He spoke of my _beauty_. Oh! how I thank Heaven for it now--_now_ that I know it will give me my heart’s desire yet!” [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL. “If one should love you with real love-- Such things have been-- Things that your fair face knows nothing of It seems--Faustine? * * * * * “Curled lips, long since half kissed away, Still sweet and keen, You’d give him poison, shall we say? Or what--Faustine?” They are much sought after, the little suppers that Mademoiselle Ange gives on Wednesday nights. Dainty, _récherché_ feasts, where the guests are chosen more for social than moral worth, and the _cuisine_ is irreproachable. Mademoiselle, with the tact of a hostess to the manner born, and the _savoir-faire_ that she has learned goodness knows how, is careful that these small feasts shall savour rather of gay Bohemianism than the conventional dullness that some people deem inseparable from propriety.