His glance is full of admiration, yet there is something of sadness--of anger in it, too, that annoys her, in spite of her exultation.

For whom is the anger--for that little fool he has married?
It seems to her an absurd thing that he should cast a thought, even an angry one, upon his wife when she--Marian--is here.
She has been leaning upon the rails of the balcony, and now draws closer to him.
"Why waste a thought on her ?" says she in a low tone that is almost a whisper.
"On her! Who ?" asks he quickly, and with an evident start.
"Oh!" with a shrug.

"If you don't wish to go into it." "But into what ?" He frowns.

He is feeling very irritable still, in spite of his admiration of her beauty.
She makes a little gesture of contempt.
"If you will not acknowledge me as even your friend." "You!" says he sharply.

"You! _Are_ you my friend ?" There is a pause.