"'Affections, sentiments, sensations!'" she quoted. "Your own danger
for the affection,--it is an affair of the heart! Mme. de St. Cyr's
unhappiness,--there is the sentiment. You are angry, Monsieur,--that
must be the sensation."

"Delphine, I am waiting."

"Ah, well. You have mentioned Vienna, and why? Liberals are countenanced
there?"

"Not in the least. But Madame l'Ambassadrice will be countenanced."

"I do not know her."

"We are not apt to know ourselves."

"Monsieur, how idle are these cross-purposes!" she said, folding her
fan.

"Delphine," I continued, taking the fan, "tell me frankly which of these
two men you prefer,--the Marquis or his Excellency."

"The Marquis? He is antiphlogistic,--he is ice. Why should I freeze
myself? I am frozen now,--I need fire!"

Her eyes burned as she spoke, and a faint red flushed her cheek.

"Mademoiselle, you demonstrate to me that life has yet a value to you."