"Yes," she said faintly. "All that matters, monseigneur."
"You," he hesitated a moment for the right words. "You are not troubled, or displeased, Iría?"
She retreated a step, bending to gather round her the trailing satin and lace folds.
"No," she answered. "No, monseigneur. Good night."
Without his will, without his act, the delicate confidence between them was shattered. The frail, exquisite understanding that was too slight for friendship, too pale for love, had been destroyed. Afterward, in the days which followed, Stanief came to look back on that month as the time when two existences crumbled under his touch.
When she had gone, he sat still for many moments.
"Adrian or Dalmorov," he decided. "I wonder—"
He touched the bell, the old dangerous drowsiness settling over his expression.
"Dimitri, you remember that I once placed in your charge a man found in this room?"
"Certainly, your Royal Highness."