“It is she,” he said. “Where is she?”
“Was he slow to catch fire?” asked the voice again. “Well, he has but just come near the flame”—and a laugh followed the words.
“Slow to light is long to burn,” said I, turning to the bank on the left side of the road, for it was thence that the voice came.
A moment later a little figure in white darted down into the road, laughing and panting. She seized Gustave’s hand.
“I ran so hard to meet you!” she cried.
“And have you brought Claire with you?” he asked.
“Present your friend to me,” commanded the duchess, as though she had not heard his question.
Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued. She moved with extraordinary grace and agility, and seemed never at rest. The one term of praise (if it be one, which I sometimes incline to doubt) that I have never heard applied to her is—dignified.
“It is most charming of you to come, Mr. Aycon,” said she. “I’ve heard so much of you, and you’ll be so terribly dull!”
“With yourself, madame, and Mlle. de Berensac”
“Oh, of course you must say that!” she interrupted. “But come along, supper is ready. How delightful to have supper again! I’m never in good enough spirits to have supper
