“And I ask you to observe,” he said, “when you complain that I go very fast, that, after all, I have so far asked you for nothing.” “How?” quoth she, frowning. “I have merely told you of my hopes. I am not so rash as to ask at once whether I may realize them.” “My faith, but that is prudent,” said she, tartly. “Of course.” It was his self-possession that exasperated her; for after that she walked the short remainder of the way in silence, and so, for the moment, the matter was left just there. But that night, after they had supped, it chanced that when Climene was about to retire, he and she were alone together in the room abovestairs that her father kept exclusively for his company. The Binet Troupe, you see, was rising in the world. As Climene now rose to withdraw for the night, Scaramouche rose with her to light her candle. Holding it in her left hand, she offered him her right, a long, tapering, white hand at the end of a softly rounded arm that was bare to the elbow. “Good-night, Scaramouche,” she said, but so softly, so tenderly, that he caught his breath, and stood conning her, his dark eyes aglow. Thus a moment, then he took the tips of her fingers in his grasp, and bowing over the hand, pressed his lips upon it. Then he looked at her again. The intense femininity of her lured him on, invited him, surrendered to him. Her face was pale, there was a glitter in her eyes, a curious smile upon her parted lips, and under its fichu-menteur her bosom rose and fell to complete the betrayal of her. By the hand he continued to hold, he drew her towards him. She came unresisting. He took the candle from her, and set it down on the sideboard by which she stood. The next moment her slight, lithe body was in his arms, and he was kissing her, murmuring her name as if it were a prayer. “Am I cruel now?” she asked him, panting. He kissed her again for only answer. “You made me cruel because you would not see,” she told him next in a whisper. And then the door opened, and M. Binet came in to have his paternal eyes regaled by this highly indecorous behaviour of his daughter. He stood at gaze, whilst they quite leisurely, and in a self-possession too complete to be natural, detached each from the other. “And what may be the meaning of this?” demanded M. Binet, bewildered and profoundly shocked. “Does it require explaining?” asked Scaramouche. “Doesn’t it speak for itself--eloquently? It means that Climene and I have taken it into our heads to be married.” “And doesn’t it matter what I may take into my head?” “Of course. But you could have neither the bad taste nor the bad heart to offer any obstacle.” “You take that for granted? Aye, that is your way, to be sure--to take things for granted. But my daughter is not to be taken for granted. I have very definite views for my daughter. You have done an unworthy thing, Scaramouche. You have betrayed my trust in you. I am very angry with you.”