"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she asked archly, "or Ishould not have been so pleased to see you.""And this within a year of a romantic love match. . .that's just the difficulty. . .""Ah!. . .that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin, with quiet sarca**, "did not then survive the lapse of. . .weeks?""Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . .They come upon us like the measles. . .and are as easily cured."Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days;perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.
"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry, "that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with ENNUI.""I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my little Chauvelin.""How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish?""Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend? she said drily.
