If only monsieur le baron had said nothing, or perhaps instead accepted the couple as the Valades and agreed to help them. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet.
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