"You mean you will have them completed—all those intricate plans?" queried Mlle. de Longeon in a tone of breathless admiration.
"I'll work all tonight and most of tomorrow; but, of course, it's only a case of putting into words ideas that have already been put into solid metal. My gun and torpedo are ready for work. It isn't so very difficult, and it's—well, it's a lot of fun."
"And great honor," paid the woman he loved.
For a moment their eyes met, but only for a moment. The next, Catin, the valet, who was taking charge of the luncheon, under pretense of anticipating a waiter moved quickly to fill her wine glass. Even the subtle eye of Owen was not sharp enough to see Mlle. de Longeon pass him a crushed slip of paper, and she had been too long trained to concealment of even the simplest emotions to betray uneasiness now.
Nevertheless, there was the possibility of surprising Mlle. de Longeon, and that possibility was realized as she glanced at Raymond Owen. His set, tense face reflected for the moment all his hatred of Harry and Pauline, who were talking blithely with Ensign Summers, another naval officer and two of the wives of the civilian visitors. She turned to him with a suddenness that would have seemed abrupt in the manner of one less beautiful.
"Mr. Owen, do come to see me," she said. "I am sure—at least I think I am sure—that we have many matters of mutual interest."
In her softly modulated tones, the invitation had no significance beyond the literal meaning of the words.
"It will be an honor," he answered.
"Tomorrow evening, then?"
"Delighted. And, later, the Naval Ball?"