brutality, are all that is needed with us weak women. Is it not so, Marthe?'
For a moment Mademoiselle Ludérac sat silent. Then, without a word, she rose and left the room.
Graham, automatically, took up his brushes. He looked at the old lady and, deliberately then, with a malignant amusement for her plight, touched in the sneer that twisted her lip and nostril. Only for a moment did she control herself, only for a moment wait to note what his next move would be.
'You have driven her away, you see,' she said. 'The last thing you wish to do, is it not?'
'The last thing,' said Graham, smiling, as he placed a cruel accent. 'But we were both at fault. Our conversation isn't really fit for her ears, is it?'
'Not fit for the ears of your Saint Cecilia? Is that what you would say?'
'Precisely.'
'And it was her you came to see? In spite of my warnings?'
'It was her I came to see;—very much in spite of your warnings.'
'Why do you not follow her then?'
'Because she is my Saint Cecilia and I do not wish to displease her.'
'You will not displease her. That I can promise you. I can promise you, Monsieur Graham, bold and brutal as you are, that she is as eager as you are for that embrace.' But as she saw the look of rage that crossed his face, her own look altered. The sneer dropped.
