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When that happened, the shock of it brought him abruptly to a
dumfounded halt.
Climene, checking in the middle of a sentence, arrested by his own
sudden stopping, plucked at his sleeve.
"What is it, Scaramouche?"
But he made no attempt to answer her, and at that moment the
coachman, to whom the little lady had already signalled, brought
the carriage to a standstill beside them. Seen in the gorgeous
setting of that coach with its escutcheoned panels, its portly
coachman and its white-stockinged footman - who swung instantly
to earth as the vehicle stopped - its dainty occupant seemed to
Climene a princess out of a fairy-tale. And this princess leaned
forward, with eyes aglow and cheeks aflush, stretching out a
choicely gloved hand to Scaramouche.
"Andre-Louis!" she called him.
And Scaramouche took the hand of that exalted being, just as he
might have taken the hand of Climene herself, and with eyes that
reflected the gladness of her own, in a voice that echoed the joyous
surprise of hers, he addressed her familiarly by name, just as she
had addressed him.


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