“Ah, ciel!—When the heart begins to take a part in this game of love, then all goes astray.”
“Aye,” repeated the man, steadily, his hard eyes upon her, “you threw your cards away—and all for love of this Rockhurst, the greatest knave in the pack.”
She turned with sudden anger:—
“Knave, sir? Sho!… King of you all!” Then, with equally sudden change of mood, “Oh, he is a villain!” she moaned, and her lip trembled upon tears.
“And so you have not seen him,” said he, altering his tone to one of elaborate sympathy, “since he returned to town, escorting to his house my fair cousin, Diana Harcourt? What—not once, after all you have given up for him?—Faith, ’tis ungallant of him!”
Her elbows on the table, her chin sunk in her hands, she was now staring fiercely into his eyes.
“Your promise, sir, that I meet him here to-night?…”
“Nay, I can only tell you, my fair Jeanne, that he journeys hither from the Tower or Whitehall twice a day—when ’tis not thrice.”
“Mon Dieu! …” she breathed between her clenched teeth.
Satisfied with the temper he had aroused in her, the man withdrew his eyes, turned sideways on his chair, and crossed his legs.