"His sister? How do you know?"
"I know what he will tell you on his return."
"But why?"
"Because you wouldn't believe him if he said she was his mother."
Following the carriage with their glance, they wandered on in the
direction it had taken. And in the carriage Aline was considering
Andre-Louis with grave eyes, lips slightly compressed, and a tiny
frown between her finely drawn eyebrows.
"You have taken to queer company, Andre," was the first thing she
said to him. "Or else I am mistaken in thinking that your companion
was Mlle. Binet of the Theatre Feydau."
"You are not mistaken. But I had not imagined Mlle. Binet so famous
already."
"Oh, as to that... " mademoiselle shrugged, her tone quietly
scornful. And she explained. "It is simply that I was at the play
last night. I thought I recognized her."
"You were at the Feydau last night? And I never saw you!"
"Were you there, too?"
"Was I there!" he cried. Then he checked, and abruptly changed his
tone. "Oh, yes, I was there," he said, as commonplace as he could,
beset by a sudden reluctance to avow that he had so willingly
descended to depths that she must account unworthy, and grateful
that his disguise of face and voice should have proved impenetrable
even to one who knew him so very well.
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