"I have kept you waiting," she said, with the tone that a woman

can always bring into her voice for the man whom she wishes to
please.

"I would wait patiently through an eternity," said he, "if I
were sure of finding a divinity so fair; but it is no compliment

to speak of your beauty to you; nothing save worship could touch
you. Suffer me only to kiss your scarf."

"Oh, fie!" she said, with a commanding gesture, "I esteem you
enough to give you my hand."

She held it out for his kiss. A woman's hand, still moist from
the scented bath, has a soft freshness, a velvet smoothness that

sends a tingling thrill from the lips to the soul. And if a man
is attracted to a woman, and his senses are as quick to feel

pleasure as his heart is full of love, such a kiss, though chaste
in appearance, may conjure up a terrific storm.

"Will you always give it me like this?" the General asked
humbly when he had pressed that dangerous hand respectfully" target="_blank" title="ad.恭敬地">respectfully to

his lips.
"Yes, but there we must stop," she said, smiling. She sat

down, and seemed very slow over putting on her gloves, trying to
slip the unstretched kid over all her fingers at once, while she

watched M. de Montriveau; and he was lost in admiration of the
Duchess and those repeatedgraceful movements of hers.

"Ah! you were punctual," she said; "that is right. I like
punctuality. It is the courtesy of kings, His Majesty says; but

to my thinking, from you men it is the most respectful flattery
of all. Now, is it not? Just tell me."

Again she gave him a side glance to express her insidious
friendship, for he was dumb with happiness sheer happiness

through such nothings as these! Oh, the Duchess understood son
metier de femme--the art and mystery of being a woman--most

marvellously well; she knew, to admiration, how to raise a man in
his own esteem as he humbled himself to her; how to reward every

step of the descent to sentimental" target="_blank" title="a.感伤的；多愁善感的">sentimental folly with hollow flatteries.
"You will never forget to come at nine o'clock."

"No; but are you going to a ball every night?"
"Do I know?" she answered, with a little childlike shrug of the

shoulders; the gesture was meant to say that she was nothing if
not capricious, and that a lover must take her as she

was.--"Besides," she added, "what is that to you? You shall
be my escort."

"That would be difficult tonight," he objected; "I am not
properly dressed."

"It seems to me," she returned loftily, "that if anyone has a
right to complain of your costume, it is I. Know, therefore,

monsieur le voyageur, that if I accept a man's arm, he is
forthwith above the laws of fashion, nobody would venture to

criticise him. You do not know the world, I see; I like you the
better for it."

And even as she spoke she swept him into the pettiness of that
world by the attempt to initiate him into the vanities of a woman

of fashion.
"If she chooses to do a foolish thing for me, I should be a

simpleton to prevent her," said Armand to himself. "She has a
liking for me beyond a doubt; and as for the world, she cannot

despise it more than I do. So, now for the ball if she likes."
The Duchess probably thought that if the General came with her

and appeared in a ballroom in boots and a black tie, nobody would
hesitate to believe that he was violently in love with her. And

the General was well pleased that the queen of fashion should
think of compromising herself for him; hope gave him wit. He had

gained confidence, he brought out his thoughts and views; he felt
nothing of the restraint that weighed on his spirits yesterday.

His talk was interesting and animated, and full of those first
confidences so sweet to make and to receive.

Was Mme de Langeais really carried away by his talk, or had she
devised this charming piece of coquetry? At any rate, she looked

up mischievously as the clock struck twelve.
"Ah! you have made me too late for the ball!" she exclaimed,

surprised and vexed that she had forgotten how time was going.
The next moment she approved the exchange of pleasures with a

smile that made Armand's heart give a sudden leap.
"I certainly promised Mme de Beauseant," she added. "They are

all expecting me."
"Very well--go."

"No--go on. I will stay. Your Eastern adventures fascinate me.
Tell me the whole story of your life. I love to share in a brave

man's hardships, and I feel them all, indeed I do!"
She was playing with her scarf, twisting it and pulling it to

pieces, with jerky, impatient movements that seemed to tell of
inward dissatisfaction and deep reflection.

"WE are fit for nothing," she went on. "Ah! we are
contemptible, selfish, frivolous creatures. We can bore

ourselves with amusements, and that is all we can do. Not one of
us that understands that she has a part to play in life. In old

days in France, women were beneficent lights; they lived to
comfort those that mourned, to encourage high virtues, to reward

artists and stir new life with noble thoughts. If the world has
grown so petty, ours is the fault. You make me loathe the ball

and this world in which I live. No, I am not giving up much for
you."

She had plucked her scarf to pieces, as a child plays with a
flower, pulling away all the petals one by one; and now she

crushed it into a ball, and flung it away. She could show her
swan's neck.

She rang the bell. "I shall not go out tonight," she told the
footman. Her long, blue eyes turned timidly to Armand; and by

the look of misgiving in them, he knew that he was meant to take
the order for a confession, for a first and great favour. There

was a pause, filled with many thoughts, before she spoke with
that tenderness which is often in women's voices, and not so

often in their hearts. "You have had a hard life," she said.
"No," returned Armand. "Until today I did not know what

happiness was."
"Then you know it now?" she asked, looking at him with a

demure, keen glance.
"What is happiness for me henceforth but this--to see you, to

hear you? . . . Until now I have only known privation; now I
know that I can be unhappy----"

"That will do, that will do," she said. "You must go; it is
past midnight. Let us regard appearances. People must not talk

about us. I do not know quite what I shall say; but the headache
is a good-natured friend, and tells no tales."

"Is there to be a ball tomorrow night?"
"You would grow accustomed to the life, I think. Very well.

Yes, we will go again tomorrow night."
There was not a happier man in the world than Armand when he went

out from her. Every evening he came to Mme de Langeais's at the
hour kept for him by a tacit understanding.

It would be tedious, and, for the many young men who carry a
redundance of such sweet memories in their hearts, it were

superfluous to follow the story step by step--the progress of a
romance growing in those hours spent together, a romance

controlled entirely by a woman's will. If sentiment went too
fast, she would raise a quarrel over a word, or when words

flagged behind her thoughts, she appealed to the feelings.
Perhaps the only way of following such Penelope's progress is by

marking its outward and visible signs.
As, for instance, within a few days of their first meeting, the

assiduous General had won and kept the right to kiss his lady's