"Do not call me that, please," she begged. "Because you have made me very happy, monseigneur."
The perfume of her daffodils was about him, faint, virginal, bitter-sweet as her presence in his house. Stanief deliberately painted to himself the fierce delight of catching her in his arms, of pressing the little sunny head to him and crushing her sweet ignorance out of existence with one kiss she could never forget. But his hand did not even close upon the small one resting in it.
"Then I have lived to some purpose," he responded serenely.
CHAPTER XIII
THE INTERVENTION OF ADRIAN
For Iría to attempt to hide a change of thought from the keen-eyed and sophisticated Adrian with his clairvoyant faculty of penetration was as futile as for a flower to resolve to shut from the sun the drop of dew in its golden heart. A week after her morning drive with Stanief, when Iría was passing one of her usual hours with the Emperor, he coolly put his finger on her secret.
"You are not yourself, cousine," he observed. "What has Feodor been telling you of me?"
"Oh!" Iría exclaimed in distress, regarding her youthful sovereign with wide, astonished eyes.
Adrian smiled with his fine malice.