blushing slightly. “You really ought not to say such things.”

“Well, well, forgive me, won’t you?” said the Count quickly; and together we strolled into the town, where we had an aperatif at the gay Café de l’Opéra, opposite the public gardens.

Here, however, a curious contretemps occurred.

She accidently upset her glass of “Dubonnet” over her left hand, saturating her white glove so that she was compelled to take it off.

“Why!” ejaculated the Count in sudden amazement, pointing to her uncovered hand. “What does that mean?”

She wore upon her finger a wedding ring!

[Pg 33]

[Pg 33]

Her face went crimson. For a moment the pretty girl was too confused to speak.

“Ah!” she cried in a low, earnest tone, as she bent towards him. “Forgive me, Bindo. I—I did not tell you. How could I?”

“You should have told me. It was your duty to tell me. Remember, we are old friends. How long have you been married?”

“Only three weeks. This is my honeymoon.”

“And your husband?”

“Four days ago business took him to Genoa. He is still absent.”

“And, in the meanwhile, you meet me, and are the merry little Gabrielle of the old days—eh?” remarked Bindo, placing both elbows upon the marble-topped table and looking straight into her face.

“Do you blame me, then?” she asked. “I admit that I deceived you, but it was imperative. Our encounter has brought back all the past—those summer days of two years ago when we met at Fontainebleau. Do you still remember them?” Her eyelids trembled.

I saw that, though married, she still regarded the handsome Bindo with a good deal of affection.

“I don’t blame 

 Prev. P 21/207 next