He carried a light
chair on to the balcony, and sat down there, crossing his legs, and
leaning one arm on the rail.
"If she touched the fire." Those words of the Marchesino remained in
the mind of Artois--why, he did not know. He saw before him a vision
of a girl and of a flame. The flame aspired towards the girl, but the
girl hesitated, drew back--then waited.
What had happened during the hours of the Festa? Artois did not know.
The Marchesino had told him nothing, except that he--Artois--was madly
in love with Vere. Monstrous absurdity! What trivial nonsense men
talked in moments of anger, when they desired to wound!
And to-morrow the Marchesino would ask Vere to marry him. Of course
Vere would refuse. She had no feeling for him. She would tell him so.
He would be obliged to understand that for once he could not have his
own way. He would go out of Vere's life, abruptly, as he had come into
it.
He would go. That was certain. But others would come into Vere's life.
Fire would spring up round about her, the fire of love of men for a
girl who has fire within her, the fire of the love of youth for youth.
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