"What's the matter with your neck?" resumed Mme Hugon in an alarmed
tone. "It's all red."
He was embarrassed and stammered. He did not know--he had nothing the
matter with his neck. Then drawing his shirt collar up:
"Ah yes, some insect stung me there!"
The Marquis de Chouard had cast a sidelong glance at the little red
place. Muffat, too, looked at Georges. The company was finishing lunch
and planning various excursions. Fauchery was growing increasingly
excited with the Countess Sabine's laughter. As he was passing her a
dish of fruit their hands touched, and for one second she looked at
him with eyes so full of dark meaning that he once more thought of
the secret which had been communicated to him one evening after
an uproarious dinner. Then, too, she was no longer the same woman.
Something was more pronounced than of old, and her gray foulard gown
which fitted loosely over her shoulders added a touch of license to her
delicate, high-strung elegance.
When they rose from the table Daguenet remained behind with Fauchery in
order to impart to him the following crude witticism about Estelle: "A
nice broomstick that to shove into a man's hands!" Nevertheless, he grew
serious when the journalist told him the amount she was worth in the way
of dowry.
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