“Caprice!” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not capricious—”
“Never mind—never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment—you of all men. Why are you here tonight? Oh,” she cried, “I will tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment—”
“I don’t,” said Clifford, very red.
“You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, “I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here—and it is because of that that I am here to beg of you—a—a favour.”
Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.
“I am in—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings.”
“Well?” said Clifford, in some astonishment.
“I want to ask you,” she continued in a low voice, “I want to ask you to—to—in case you should speak of me before him—not to say—not to say—”
“I shall not speak of you to him,” he said quietly.
“Can—can you prevent others?”
“I might if I was present. May I ask why?”
“That is not fair,” she murmured; “you know how—how he considers me—as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I have never seen a man—such a man as Monsieur Hastings.”
He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.