For a moment she made no movement. Then she turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy content had gone from her eyes.
"Why do you ask?"
"Isn't it quite a natural question from a jealous man who believes that every one who sees you must be in love with you? You have seen a great deal of the prince, haven't you, in the last few years? He understands your art. There are many things that you and he have in common."
Louise was looking out of the window at the thin stream of people still passing along Piccadilly. She seemed suddenly to have become only the shadow of her former brilliant self.
"I think that once—perhaps twice," she confessed, "I came very near to caring for him."
"And now?"
"And now," she repeated, suddenly gripping John's hands, "I tell you that I am very much nearer hating him. So much for the prince! In ten minutes we shall be at home, and you are such a dear stupid about coming in. You must try to say all the nice things in the world to me quickly—in ten minutes!"
"How shall I begin?" he whispered.
She leaned once more toward him.
"You don't need any hints," she murmured. "You're really quite good at it!"