“Nineteen—a good age—a lucky age!” he said, and kissed her hand. “And you, M. Davis—but I do not need to wish you good fortune—you have it there,” and he nodded toward the girl. “Do not worry, my friend—I will do my best to make your sister happy. I can promise, at least, not to annoy her. Good-bye!”
And with a wave of his hat, he was gone.
They all sat for a moment without speaking, staring at the door through which he had vanished. Then Davis reached for his glass.
“Yes, he is mad,” he gulped. “But what does he mean, going away like that? He—he frightens me!”
Again there was a moment’s silence. Perhaps he frightened all of them. Madame Ghita touched her eyes gently with her handkerchief.
“He reminds me of a man about to go over the top,” said Selden, pensively; “in a sort of ecstasy. I have seen them like that many times, as they stood waiting for the word.”
“Yes,” cried Miss Fayard, with a catch in her throat, “the word to go forward to their death!”
“It is not always death,” said Selden gently, his heart very tender for the lovely sad woman beside him. “Sometimes it is victory!”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PRINCE PLAYS
THEY still tell, at the Sporting Club, of the last visit of Prince Danilo. There have been other visits more spectacular, ending with a pistol-shot on the terrace or a draught of poison in the wash-room; but of them no one speaks. There have been many persons who won more or lost more—and were promptly forgotten. But there was something about the prince that night, an air of mystery and unreality, which the onlookers never forgot; and his style was so exquisite, his bearing so perfect, that they have ever since served as a model by which the attendants measure each new aspirant for the honours of the rooms. And all are agreed that they have never been approached.