Allard followed, noting for the first time the title given the other. Interpreting his glance, Stanief nodded intelligence as the servant withdrew for an instant.
"Yes; a mere formality, but one it is not safe to ignore in our delicate position. To speak otherwise might draw attention."
Allard looked across the miniature dining table, of which the shaded candles and slim vase of flowers, the translucent crystal and frosty silver, all seemed to typify and insist upon the life which so strangely claimed him; and gazing at the author of this, the gray eyes grew splendidly luminous with something for which gratitude was too pale and colorless a term. All the hoarded emotion of the last two years, all the despair and desolation, added their strength to his eloquent regard. Receiving it, Stanief's own eyes grew warm and almost femininely sweet. No speech could have told so much. When the servant reëntered and the lashes of both men fell, a chain unbreakable had been forged, the clearness of wordless understanding was between them.
Neither spoke during the first course. The rapid beat of a small engine finally disturbed the silence, telling of a launch approaching from shore.
"Try your Sauterne," advised Stanief quietly.
Allard obeyed. The food nauseated him, the heavy pulse of his own heart seemed tangled with the nearing throb of the boat; the suspense was physical pain. The wine helped, sending its vivifying warmth along his numbed nerves.
"You know," the tranquil voice added, "this ship is foreign ground. There are a few formalities attached. We should have a little time, even—"
Allard lifted his head with a quick breath.
"Once, in such an hour, I asked one whom I believed a friend to leave me a revolver," he said. "Not being of the class, he refused. If there should be—a little time, I will make that request of you, your Royal Highness."
"And I am of the class. But there are many things before that."