“Yes, madame.”
“Then say to this young man—for my English gives me shame—that we are going back for half an hour of chemin-de-fer. If he and M. le Prince care to join us before that, good; if not, we will look in here again on our way out. Thank you,” she added, when Selden had passed this on. “Come, Cicette.”
As she turned away, her eyes met his again in that same questioning, impersonal regard. Yet it was not altogether impersonal, for somehow, at bottom, it was deeply intimate—if one could only tear away a veil! Looking after her, he noted the exquisite poise of her head, how superbly she moved—like a queen; no, he had never seen a queen who walked like that! Why the devil hadn’t Davis introduced him?
Cicette glanced back over her shoulder and gave Davis an encouraging nod and smile as she passed from sight.
That young man, who had been watching, fascinated, dropped into his seat again and poured himself out some more wine.
“Isn’t she a corker?” he demanded.
“She is certainly a pretty girl,” agreed Selden, and was tempted to add a word of caution, but checked himself. After all, it was no affair of his. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Cicette Fayard. She is a niece of Madame Ghita. Believe me, madame takes good care of her—never lets her out of her sight—makes me feel like a beast of prey! I’ve been trying to pick up some French, so I can talk to her, but I haven’t made much out of it yet.”
“Madame Ghita?” repeated Selden. “That is the name of the elder one?”
Davis nodded.