“She is like that when she sings,” Laverick remarked. “She has none of the vivacity of the Frenchwomen. Yet there was never anything so graceful in the world as the way she moves about the stage.”
“If I were a man,” Zoe sighed, “that is the sort of woman I would die for.”
“If you were a man,” he replied, “you would probably find some one whom you preferred to live for. Do you know, you are rather a morbid sort of person, Miss Zoe?”
“Ah, I like that!” she declared. “I will not be called Miss Leneveu any more by you. You must call me Miss Zoe, please,—Zoe, if you like.”
“Zoe, by all means. Under the circumstances, I think it is only fitting.”
His eyes wandered across the room again.
“Ah!” she cried softly, “you, too, are coming under the spell, then. I was reading about her only the other day. They say that so many men fall in love with her—so many men to whom she gives no encouragement at all.”
Laverick looked into his companion’s face.