The chevalier rose. She had round her throat a thin band of black velvet that looked stretched almost to the snapping-point.
“Je crois bien,” she said; “and you have missed your vocation—you are lost to the secret sairveece, monsieur.”
“Certainly,” said Ned. “I am quite unable to lie.”
She answered, unaffected, and with recovered gaiety—
“I take, then, monsieur his word that he shall not interfere.”
She added, shaking her finger at him—
“Nevaretheless, it is not all as you say, but it is a good guess of half measures.”
“Very well,” said Ned, with entire composure. “And that being understood, perhaps madame will take up the one victim to her ardour, and leave the other to his convalescence.”
He bowed very politely, and lay down with his face to the wall.
She gazed at him a moment, with an expression compound of perplexity and lively detestation; then, reclaiming De Querchy, went from the room fondling the little broken corpse.