She smiled inscrutably.

"Olga did."

He gave Clarissa a prod.

"Olga?"

"Yes. She told me so."

"Curious I shouldn't have been aware of it."

"And you weren't aware of it--er--in my perg--"

"Hermia!"

"Or of the face powder on your coat lapel?"

"No."

"It was there, you know. You carried it quite innocently into the glare of the smoking-room. Poor Olga! And she is always so careful to cover her trails! But I warned her. She shall not trifle with your young affections--"

"You warned her?" he said, with a startled air.

"Yes, that unless she intended to marry you she must leave you alone."

Markham flicked a fly from the donkey's ear.

"H--m," he said, and relapsed into silence. She glanced at him sideways before she went on.

"You know you're not really angry with me, Philidor. You couldn't be.

It isn't my fault if I stumbled into the climacteric of your interesting romance. I wouldn't willingly have done it for worlds.

But I couldn't help seeing, could I? And Olga was _so_ self-possessed!

Only a woman terribly disconcerted could be quite so self-possessed as Olga was. And then the next day you went away. Flight is confession, Philidor."

"H--m," said Markham. "If there are any missing details that you'd like me to supply, don't hesitate to mention them."

"I wouldn't--if there _were_ any."

"And you believe--"

"That you're madly in love with the most dangerous woman in New York, and that only time and distance can salve your wounds and her conscience."

He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder.

"That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor," she went on, "a delusion--also a snare. Your beetling brows, your air of indifference, your intolerance of the world, they're the defensive armor for your shrinking susceptibilities--you a painter of beautiful women! Every sitter in your studio an enemy in the house--every tube of paint a silent witness of your frailty--every brush stroke a delicious pain--the agony of it!"

She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip. "It's much wiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?"

Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa refused to be drawn into the discussion. Indeed, his patience, like that of their beast of burden, continued to be excellent. Hermia's impish spirit was not proof against such imperturbably good humor, and at last she subsided. Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking after a while with a cool a.s.sertiveness.

"It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly sentimental a.s.s you've been picturing me, that you'd care to trust yourself to what you are pleased to call my shrinking susceptibilities."

"But you're in love with another woman," she said taking to cover quickly.

"I'm in love with _all_ other women," he laughed. "All--that is--except yourself. It must be a surprise to one who counts her conquests daily to discover that, of all the women in the world, you are the only female my shrinking susceptibilities are proof against."

Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes now quite violent and child-like.

"I never thought of that, Philidor. It _is_ curious that I never thought of that. It isn't very flattering to me, is it?"

"No--especially as the opportunities for indulgence in my favorite pursuit are so very obvious."

She laughed but looked away. He had provided a sauce for the gander which made him seem anything but a goose.

"But, of course, you--you _couldn't_ take advantage of them--under the circ.u.mstances," she remarked.

He shook his head, doggedly whimsical. "One never can tell just how long one's defensive armor may hold out. I'm sure my brows are beetling much less than usual. In fact, this morning in spite of severe provocation they don't seem to be beetling at all. And as for my air of indifference--I challenge you to discover it. If these are forbidding symptoms, Hermia, take warning while there's time."

"Oh, I'm not in the least alarmed," she said demurely.

But she let him alone after that. They followed slowly in the trail of the _roulotte_. Whether because of Clarissa's habitual drowsiness or their own interest in other matters, the s.h.a.ggy horse had gone faster than they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of straight road their hosts of the night had disappeared.

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Hermia then.

"No, I don't. I never know where I'm going. But I'm sure of one thing. We must make some money at once."

"We'll follow Cleofonte to Alenon then," said Hermia resolutely.

So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved forward at a brisker pace.

They had met few people upon the road this morning and these, as on the day before, were farmers or those who worked for them, both men and women. The main line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, lay some miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much harder one, that the motorists went if southward bound. It was therefore with some surprise that they heard behind them the sound of a motor horn.

Markham caught the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car came even with them, running slowly, and stopped, its engine humming.

"This is the way to Verneuil?" asked the man at the wheel in French.

"I hope so," said Markham returning their salutation. "For that's the way we're going."

Something in Markham's manner and speech arrested the driver's eye, which pa.s.sed rapidly to Hermia, who stood silently at the side of the road, suddenly aware of an unusual interest in her appearance. The man at the wheel turned to his companion and said something in a low tone.

Markham felt a warm color surge upward to his brows.

"Will you precede us, Monsieur," he said coolly, "we are already late upon the way."

But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at once and, ignoring Markham, questioned Hermia gaily.

Mademoiselle was a _boh?mienne_. Perhaps she would condescend to read their fortunes.

Hermia made a pretty courtesy and laughed.