“That! Pooh! An incident; hardly a folly.” “A folly--at such a time,” Sautron insisted. The Marquis looked a question. The Count answered it. “Aline,” said he, pregnantly. “She knows. How she knows I can’t tell you, but she knows, and she is deeply offended.” The smile perished on the Marquis’ face. He gathered himself up. “Offended?” said he, and his voice was anxious. “But yes. You know what she is. You know the ideals she has formed. It wounds her that at such a time--whilst you are here for the purpose of wooing her--you should at the same time be pursuing this affair with that chit of a Binet girl.” “How do you know?” asked La Tour d’Azyr. “She has confided in her aunt. And the poor child seems to have some reason. She says she will not tolerate that you should come to kiss her hand with lips that are still contaminated from... Oh, you understand. You appreciate the impression of such a thing upon a pure, sensitive girl such as Aline. She said--I had better tell you--that the next time you kiss her hand, she will call for water and wash it in your presence.” The Marquis’ face flamed scarlet. He rose. Knowing his violent, intolerant spirit, M. de Sautron was prepared for an outburst. But no outburst came. The Marquis turned away from him, and paced slowly to the window, his head bowed, his hands behind his back. Halted there he spoke, without turning, his voice was at once scornful and wistful. “You are right, Charles, I am a fool--a wicked fool! I have just enough sense left to perceive it. It is the way I have lived, I suppose. I have never known the need to deny myself anything I wanted.” Then suddenly he swung round, and the outburst came. “But, my God, I want Aline as I have never wanted anything yet! I think I should kill myself in rage if through my folly I should have lost her.” He struck his brow with his hand. “I am a beast!” he said. “I should have known that if that sweet saint got word of these petty devilries of mine she would despise me; and I tell you, Charles, I’d go through fire to regain her respect.” “I hope it is to be regained on easier terms,” said Charles; and then to ease the situation which began to irk him by its solemnity, he made a feeble joke. “It is merely asked of you that you refrain from going through certain fires that are not accounted by mademoiselle of too purifying a nature.” “As to that Binet girl, it is finished--finished,” said the Marquis. “I congratulate you. When did you make that decision?” “This moment. I would to God I had made it twenty-four hours ago. As it is--” he shrugged--“why, twenty-four hours of her have been enough for me as they would have been for any man--a mercenary, self-seeking little baggage with the soul of a trull. Bah!” He shuddered in disgust of himself and her. “Ah! That makes it easier for you,” said M. de Sautron, cynically. “Don’t say it, Charles. It is not so. Had you been less of a fool, you would have warned me sooner.”