She shrugged, slipping off her wraps and amazing the other diners with the marvels of her costume. “_Mais non_,” she replied indifferently. “I’m heated; I never drink wine when I have danced.” William, who was giving his order, stopped short a moment, his eyes down, and she saw him pant like a man short of breath. But in another moment he had despatched the waiter with his order and drained his glass of water. “_Mon Dieu!_” said Fanchon, watching him with dark, mysterious, brooding eyes. “How can you? Iced water--it’s bad for your liver!” “Drat my liver!” said William hoarsely. Then he leaned across the table, his eyes raised to hers at last and spoke in a low, even voice for her ears alone. “What have you been doing, Fanchon?” She had never seen that look in his eyes before, and the blood rushed back to her heart. She could not answer for a moment; her lips moved without words. “Do you hear?” he repeated sternly. “What have you been doing to-night?” “I sang, you know I sang,” she replied at last, but her eyes quivered and shrank away from his, and there was something about her like a child expecting a blow. But William did not heed it; he was still white with passion. “You did more than sing,” he rejoined coldly. “You danced me into an insult!” Her eyes dilated. “An insult--you?” “Yes, an insult. Father saw you. He came home and told me what he thought of you, and of me for letting you do it!” Fanchon put her hand to her throat. She felt choked again, but her beautiful, wild, fawn-like eyes clung to his face. “You danced,” he went on bitterly. “What did you dance? One of those--those fandangoes?” Her face changed; a glimmer of light, of mischief, shot across it, and she let her jeweled hands drop in her lap. “_Oui_, I danced! _Mais que voulez vous?_ Am I not a dancer? You--it is you who are ashamed, _mon ami_!” she added bitterly. “Why you marry me, then?” He threw himself back in his chair, his clenched hand falling on the table with a gesture as poignant as it was desperate. “You’ve let the cat out of the bag! This place--these provincials! Why, this place is full of it by now. Did you think you were in Paris?” “In Paris?” she laughed wildly. “_Mon Dieu, non! ‘O Paris, c’est chez toi qu’il est doux de vivre, c’est chez toi que je veux mourir!’_” “Drop that chatter!” he said harshly. “You speak English as well as I do.” She did not answer for a moment; then she leaned across the table, looking at him, her face white and her eyes sparkling. “You’re ashamed that you married me, a dancer--_n’est-ce-pas_?” He averted his face. She caught only the haggard whiteness of the profile, and she saw his hand, stretched on the table, clench and unclench nervously. She drew a long breath. “You’re ashamed of me,” she said in a low, quivering voice, recoiling from him. “I--I see it!” “I loved you,” said William passionately. “I loved you, I asked you to consider me, and--you do this!”