“You are fond of camelias, Mr. Donnington.”
“I am wearing one, as you see,” I replied pointing to my buttonhole. But I had often given camelias to Miralda in those three weeks; and this handsome, dangerous, stately creature with hazel eyes, which were open and frank or diabolically sly at will, knew it.
Again she paused once more as the preface to a shot.
“What do you know about Major Sampayo, Mr. Donnington?” She flashed the question at me, her eyes searchlights in their intensity.
“I think he’s quite a handsome man and looks awfully well in that rather gorgeous uniform; and I presume those orders on his chest show that he is as distinguished a soldier as he looks.”
“Spoken without even a shadow of hesitation. I declare that every moment I admire your acting more.” She let her eyes rest on mine and half closed the lids. “I think I am glad I am not Major Sampayo,” she said slowly.
“I should imagine you have every reason to be satisfied with your own delightfully handsome personality. But if it comes to that, I am also glad I am not the major.”
“Not even with Miralda thrown in?”
“Not even with Miralda thrown in,” I repeated with a laugh. “She’s a very charming girl and exceedingly pretty and all that. She was acknowledged to be one of the prettiest girls in Paris last spring, you know, and I admire her tremendously.”
“A frank admission of unconcerned admiration is very clever, of course, but I am not deceived by it, Mr. Donnington.”