“No, better;—but see here, Alec!” he laughed, starting up. “You and I
have all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you look
already!” I laughed too, and told him I was devoured by the desire for
gold, and we had better talk of something else; so when Geneviève came
in shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.
Geneviève was dressed in silvery grey from head to foot. The light
glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek
to Boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never
before failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers,
and I promptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held out her
hand, which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said,
looking at Boris—
“You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon.” This also was something new.
She had always asked me herself until to-day.
“I did,” said Boris shortly.
“And you said yes, I hope?” She turned to me with a charming
conventional smile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before
yesterday. I made her a low bow. “J’avais bien l’honneur, madame,” but
refusing to take up our usual bantering tone, she murmured a hospitable
commonplace and disappeared. Boris and I looked at one another.
“I had better go home, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Hanged if I know,” he replied frankly.
While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Geneviève
reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully
beautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were too
bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.
“Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but
I haven’t. Come here, Boris;” and she slipped her other arm through
his. “Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I
like as well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won’t
hurt him.”
“À la bonheur!” I cried, “who says there are no thunderstorms in April?”
“Are you ready?” chanted Boris. “Aye ready;” and arm-in-arm we raced
into the dining-room, scandalizing the servants. After all we were not
so much to blame; Geneviève was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I
not quite twenty-one.