The Master looked up as she entered, then got up, pushing the book away.
“So you have come,” he said. He came forward and held out his hand.
Rosalie, trembling and uncertain, returned the hand-shake, nodding.
“What! you cannot speak yet?”
She shook her head, but as he was withdrawing his hand she clutched it eagerly, unconscious of anything but this one little sinking straw of hope.
This time he looked at her more closely. “What is it?” he asked.
She raised her other hand to her throat and mouth, then pointed to him, her eyes full on his face.
“I’m not the Serpent,” he answered, and he shook his head and tried to disengage his hand.
But Rosalie’s fingers tightened with a fierceness and determination altogether foreign to her. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashed angrily; she gave one little imperious stamp with her foot.
The Master looked at her and smiled—a smile that travelled from his eyes to the corners of his mouth.