A somewhat set look upon his thin face guarded the fluctuations of
his soul, but the blood rose strongly under his dark skin.

For a moment he did not venture upon a reply, and in that moment he
was suddenly aware that she had caught his meaning from him--and
that it was a horrible mistake. It was one of those instants of
highly-charged exchanges of meanings whose revelation was as useless
to be denied as powerless to be explained.

Then her words came in tumultuous, passionate refutation of his
thought. "That is what my father had come to tell me--that he had
arranged my marriage. It is a very splendid thing. To a general--a
rich general!"

She had not meant to tell him like that! But for the moment she was
savagely glad to hurl it at him.

He made no answer. His eyes were inscrutably intent. A variety of
things were rearranging themselves in his head.

"You're--you're going to marry him?" he said slowly.

"What else?" But she felt the phrase unfortunate and plunged past
it. "It is not for me to say no, monsieur. It is for my father to
arrange."

"But his indulgence--? You were telling me, you know, that he was so
fond of you. And that you were one of the moderns--the revolting
moderns--"