She shivers and draws her shawl closely about her—and, indeed, these September nights are growing treacherous. Looking down at her feet I see that she has adopted the sensible precaution of thick boots, as I have done.
"How those men are laughing," she says, "at some racy story, no doubt. Paul Vasher's lungs seem to be in a satisfactory state. Have you and he been quarrelling?" she says, turning her head till her eyes rest on my face.
"I did not know it."
"Sir George and I have both remarked it. Until a week ago you were inseparable, now you are conspicuous by your distance from each other."
Some slight intangible insolence in her tone gives flavour to her words, and warns me that she means mischief; and, indeed, I might have known her better than to suppose that she would take the trouble to come out here to talk commonplaces; but since she has thrown the gauntlet down, I will not fear to take it up.
"You do me too much honour," I say, quietly," and him. We should never have taken the trouble to watch the affairs of you and Sir George Vestris so closely."
And as I meet her eyes full under the moonlight, I smile scornfully, securely. How heavy my heart is she shall not know, and of her pity I shall have none, therefore rally to my side coolness, disdain, indifference. As I look into her face with a fuller knowledge of the truth than she possesses, I can see clearly enough that she believes me to be her rival, that she is jealous; I see that the love Paul believed to be long dead lives as fiercely and hotly in her as ever, and at this moment we read each other's hearts, see each other as we really are . . . henceforth no shams or subterfuges will rise up between Silvia Fleming and me! She looks away.
"May I then be allowed to congratulate you on your felicity?"
