Here was some odd mystery. She folded her hands across the polished olive-wood.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed, and it was her turn now to mock. “What a passion for music has your lordship!”
His eye shot anger upon her, beneath contracted brow. She felt at last that she had power, and her smile widened.
“You and your song,” said he, “are inseparable. By your graciousness I hold you mine for a little while, nor will I be defrauded of any of the sweetness you can give.”
The words seemed charmingly chosen; but again the underlying, unknown purpose was perceptible. A quick inspiration came to her: here was the moment to bargain; and Enguerrand, the little impertinent one, should know of her easy triumph before this grey English day had turned to the murky English night.
“If I sing,” she said, “I must have my guerdon.”
Amusement and relief sprang together into his look:—
“Nay, then, pretty one; make your own terms. Pearls for those shell-like ears—gems for that throat—”
She shook her head till the ringlets danced.