"You feel strongly, whether it be love or hate."
This last remark seemed to reach her, even to stir her to something more
definite than mere _mauvaise honte_. She glanced quickly from Julian to
Valentine.
"Love and hate," she responded. "Yes, that's it; I could feel them both.
You're right there, my d--, I mean yes."
And again she looked from one young man to the other. She had put up
her veil, which was stretched in a bunched-up mass across her powdered
forehead, and Julian had an odd fancy that in the firelight he saw upon
her haggard young face the rapid and fleeting expression of the two
violently opposed emotions of which she spoke. Her face, turned upon
him, seemed to shine with a queer, almost with a ludicrous, vehemence
of yearning which might mean passion. This flashed into the sudden frown
of a young harridan as her eyes travelled on to Valentine. But the frown
died quickly, and she looked downcast, and sat biting her thin lips, and
crumbling a biscuit into the tiny blue and white china plate upon her
knee.
"And do you give way to your impulses?" Valentine continued, still very
gravely.
"What?"
"Do you express what you feel?"
A flash of childish cunning crept into her eyes and mouth, giving her the
aspect of a _gamin_.
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