"Fair cousin—if I but knew you were as pleased, as you are surprised, at seeing me!" With the words he advanced and kissed her cold finger-tips with Old-World punctiliousness.
"What are you doing on the Mauretania? Why did you leave Spain, Carlos?"
As he shut the door he smiled, and now her intuition warned her of the cunning which lurked behind those pleasantly curving lips.
"First tell me that you are glad to see me! I have come many leagues to hear those words, Maria!"
"Why.... Why,... of course, I am always glad to see you, cousin."
He simulated a pathetic irony. "You say you are always glad to see me—and yet, I fear it is not always since my unfortunate quarrel with your brother. Alas, and that has hardened your heart against me."
The Duke was a suitor of the romantic school: each phrase was studied, each attitude as obviously planned as a military campaign. It was a method which had invariably succeeded, until his efforts with the Princess of Aragon. Yet, he was too satisfied with bygone results to abandon the time-tried artistries of former victories.
The Princess dropped her eyes before the undeniable questioning of his burning glances. As she looked away, he assured himself that he had scored.
"My brother ... what do you know of him, Carlos? When did you see him last? Have you been in Seguro?"
Two long whistles, and the vibration of the great steamship evidenced the beginning of the long voyage. The answer to the questions was still more pathetic in cadence.