The soft wonder of a perfect Indian summer
glorified land, river and sky. Why not dream and bask? Why not
drink exhilarating toddies?
Meantime the entertainment to be given by Gaspard Roussillon
occupied everybody's imagination to an unusual extent. Rene de
Ronville, remembering but not heeding the doubtful success of his
former attempt, went long beforehand to claim Alice as his
partenaire; but she flatly refused him, once more reminding him of
his obligations to little Adrienne Bourcier. He would not be
convinced.
"You are bound to me," he said, "you promised before, you know,
and the party was but put off. I hold you to it; you are my
partenaire, and I am yours, you can't deny that."
"No you are not my partenaire," she firmly said; then added
lightly, "Feu mon partenaire, you are dead and buried as my
partner at that dance."
He glowered in silence for a few moments, then said:
"It is Lieutenant Beverley, I suppose."
She gave him a quick contemptuous look, but turned it instantly
into one of her tantalising smiles.
"Do you imagine that?" she demanded.
"Imagine it! I know it," he said with a hot flush. "Have I no
sense?"
"Precious little," she replied with a merry laugh.
"You think so."
"Go to Father Beret, tell him everything, and then ask him what he
thinks," she said in a calm, even tone, her face growing serious.
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