She drew back in displeasure.
“No! I'm not Penelope. Look at me! Look!”
What was it the soldier read in those siren eyes—what depths of allurement—what sublime degradation?
“Fauvette!” he faltered.
“Yes, your Fauvette. Say it!”
He said it, knowing that his power of resistance was breaking. He was going to yield to her, he could not help yielding. What did the consequences matter? She was too beautiful.
Then slowly, musically, the neighboring chimes resounded.
A quarter to one!
And Christopher remembered.
God! What should he do? He straightened from her with hands clenched and eyes hardening.