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"'Who else can it be. No one except him can have an inkling of our love; Briancourt, I am sure, has been watching us. Besides, look here,' added he, picking up the bit of paper, 'not wanting to write on paper with his crest or initials, and probably not having any other, he has written on a card deftly cut out of a piece of drawing paper. Who else but a painter could have done such a thing? By taking too many precautions, we sometimes compromise ourselves. Moreover, smell it. He is so saturated with attar of roses that everything he touches is impregnated with it.'
"'Yes, you are right,' said I, musingly.
"'Over and above all this, it is just a thing for him to do, not that he is bad at heart'
"'You love him!' said I, with a pang of jealousy, grasping his arm.
"'No, I do not; but I am simply just towards him; besides you have known him from his childhood, and you must admit that he is not so bad, is he?'
"'No, he is simply mad.'
