"Take care you do not get cold," said the Prince as he helped her to loosen the clasp at the neck. The whiteness of her throat seemed like marble in the moonlight. Her hook had caught in her lace collar, and in disentangling it the Prince's fingers brushed her bosom; they gave her a tingling sensation and she started up.
"I beg your pardon," said Mirko; "it was not intentional, but if it had been would you resent it? Where is the harm, are we not friends?"
"Friends," said Ragna, "just friends. You must not do things like that."
"Then give me your hand. Has anyone ever read your palm? No?"
He took her hand lying idly on a fold of her cloak and held it up in the moonlight.
"I cannot see the lines, it is too dark, but your hand is beautiful, so soft, so tapering!"
He drew the tips of his fingers over her palm and had the satisfaction of seeing her shiver. She tried to draw her hand away, but he kept it.
"Ragna, little Ragna, there are many things, I should like to say to you, but I am afraid you would misunderstand me. Do you know what you are? You are the Sleeping Beauty, you are asleep, no one has come yet to wake you; you are waiting for the Prince."
He paused, stroking her hand. His touch seemed to magnetise her, for her hand lay passive within his and she made no effort to withdraw it as he leaned towards her. The music of his voice seemed to hold her enthralled,—perhaps the champagne she had drunk had something to do with it,—she had no volition, her will was asleep.
"Who will the 'Prince' be, Ragna? A fair-haired lover with cold blue eyes, or a Southerner—one who will burn you with his passion, who will reveal to you all the magic of love? Is it not worth everything to feel one's self awake, to live?"