"Yolanda or Mary--it's all one to me. There is not another like you in all the world."
She drew herself up haughtily: "Sir, this indignity shall cost you dear," and turning her back on him she moved away three or four paces. Then she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. His face had lost its smile, and she knew the joke had gone far enough; so the dimples began to cluster about the quivering corners of her mouth, the long black lashes fell for a moment, a soft radiance came to her eyes, and she asked:--
"Which shall it be, Sir Max, Yolanda or the princess?"
"Yolanda," cried Max, huskily, while he held out his hands to her. Quick as the movement of a kitten, she sprang to him and allowed his arms to close about her for one brief moment. While one might count ten she rested her head on his breast, but all too quickly she turned her face to his and whispered:--
"Are you sure? Is it Yolanda?"
"Yes, yes, Yolanda. Thank God! it is Yolanda," he replied, placing his hand before his eyes. She slipped from his arms, and Max, too deeply moved to speak, walked over to the window and looked out upon the frowning walls of Peronne the Impregnable. There was irony for you!
Probably Max was not sure that Yolanda was Yolanda; but, if he was, conviction had come through his emotions, and it might be temporary. He was, however, soon to be convinced by evidence so cunningly constructed that he was compelled to abandon the testimony of his own eyes and accept that of seemingly incontestable facts.
"We are to dine privately with the duke at twelve o'clock," I said, while Max was standing at the window.
"Indeed?" asked Yolanda, arching her eyebrows; surprise and displeasure evident in her voice. She glanced at the great clock, then looked toward Max, and said:--
"It lacks but thirty minutes of that time now, and I suppose I shall soon lose you."