“You give me credit,” the Prince said slowly, “for great generosity. If I let you go it seems to me that I shall lose you altogether. You will go to your husband. He will take you away!”
“Why not?” Lucille asked. “I want to go. I am tired of London. You cannot lose what you never possessed—what you never had the slightest chance of possessing.”
The Prince laughed softly—not a pleasant laugh, not even a mirthful one.
“Dear lady,” he said, “you speak not wisely. For I am very much in earnest when I say that I love you, and until you are kinder to me I shall not let you go.”
“That is rather a dangerous threat, is it not?” Lucille asked. “You dare to tell me openly that you will abuse your position, that you will keep me bound a servant to the cause, because of this foolish fancy of yours?”
The Prince smiled at her through the gloom—a white, set smile.
“It is no foolish fancy, Lucille. You will find that out before long. You have been cold to me all your life. Yet you would find me a better friend than enemy.”
“If I am to choose,” she said steadily, “I shall choose the latter.”
“As you will,” he answered. “In time you will change your mind.”
The carriage had stopped. The Prince alighted and held out his hand. Lucille half rose, and then with her foot upon the step she paused and looked around.