he drew the furs over her gold-laden skirts, his head bore lower and lower, and his lips touched her hand and her arm.
"The sun is up. I never am so late as this," she said, as though she did not feel those kisses; but, by the clear light of the day-dawn, he saw the blood mantle over her throat and bosom, and the tremulous shadow of a smile move her mouth.
The horses sprang forward; he stood on the lower step, grave and lost in thought.
"Is it too early to offer felicitations, my friend?" said the Duc de St. Louis, passing to go homeward; he had been playing whist all night.
"I do not understand you," he answered, with the tranquil falsehood of society.
The question annoyed him deeply. He loved this woman with all the tenderness and passion of his temperament, and loved her the more for the ascendency he had gained over her and the faults that he saw in her; he loved her generously, truly, and with purer desire than most men. Yet what would his love for her ever look to the world?—since he was poor.
Meanwhile she, with her fair hair tumbled
