for utterance, which rippled forth in a laugh at nothing,—at a strutting pigeon,—and Mr. Clifford.
*****
“And you think because I return the salute of the students in the Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not know you Monsieur, but vanity is man’s other name;—be content, Monsieur Vanity, I shall be punctilious—oh most punctilious in returning your salute.”
“But I beg—I implore you to let me render you that homage which has so long———”
“Oh dear, I don't care for homage.”
“Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and then,—occasionally—very occasionally.”
“And if you, why not another?”
“Not at all,—I will be discretion itself.”
“Discretion—why?”
Her eyes were very clear and Clifford winced for a moment, but only for a moment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him he sat down and offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all the time he knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word he uttered bound him in honor from which there was no escape. And all the time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford’s rescue,—for even they felt there was something wrong, as Elliott stormed within himself and growled maledictions.
When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but Rue Barrée’s response was long incoming and his ardor cooled while the situation slowly assumed its just
