But Claude de Chauxville
--accomplished steersman through the shoals of human nature,
especially through those very pronounced shoals who call themselves
women of the world--Claude de Chauxville knew the value of the slightest
change of manner, should that change manifest itself more than once.
The ring of indifference, or something dangerously near it, in Etta's
voice had first been noticeable the previous evening, and the attache
knew it. It had been in her voice whenever she spoke to him then. It was
there now.
"Some things," he continued, in a voice she had never heard before, for
this man was innately artificial, "which a woman usually knows before
they are told to her."
"What sort of things, M. le Baron?"
He gave a little laugh. It was so strange a thing to him to be sincere
that he felt awkward and abashed. He was surprised at his own sincerity.
"That I love you--hum. You have known it long?"
The face which he could not see was not quite the face of a good woman.
Etta was smiling.
"No--o," she almost whispered.
"I think you must have known it," he corrected suavely. "Will you do me
the honor of becoming my wife?"
It was very correctly done, Claude de Chauxville had regained control
over himself. He was able to think about the riches which were evidently
hers. But through the thought he loved the woman.
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