"
"Plenty of time--Mon Dieu!" the man rasped out. "How like you,
Fatalite! What a pair! Vardri always living _au clair de la lune_,
and you half asleep, and full of illusions. _Les illusions sont les
hirondelles_. How often have I told you that?"
"They make life possible," Arithelli answered softly.
Again the man stared and marvelled. Verily, here was another being who
was neither "Becky Sharp" nor "Fatalite." The exultation, the triumph
of one loved and desired, was hers for the moment. Who, seeing her
now, could have the heart to warn her of inevitable disillusion, the
doubts and fears, the clinging and the torments that are the heritage
of all womenkind.
He, too, had once dreamed foolish dreams.
He gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him.
"Vardri is your lover? You shall answer me before I leave this room."
She did not flinch, or blush, or look away.
"I love him."
Joy shone in her widely open eyes. Love hovered about her mouth, and
the passion that had stirred in him momentarily shrank back ashamed.
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