Zoya Rochal examined Rowland's profile through her half-closed eyes and when she spoke she used English, a language which fell from her lips quite as readily as French or Russian.
"Monsieur Rowland," she smiled, "you are quite the most cheerful person I have ever known in my life. You always smile more when things go wrong. I don't understand. Do you never get angry?"
"Well, rather! Once when a piece of Boche shrapnel smashed my jimmy-pipe, right out of my teeth. It was the best pipe I ever had," he finished thoughtfully.
She laughed. "I've never met one like you before. Most men are so desperate in great affairs."
"H--m. I've been desperate a lot of times but didn't find it helped me much. I tried that in the vault last night and only barked my shins. So I went to sleep and dreamed I was married to a princess--until Herr Liederman blew me up."
"A princess!" she smiled archly. "Monsieur Rowland, you still have the heart of a child." Her voice sank a note as she glanced at the back of Herr Liederman's head. "It is that which has attracted me to you. The world has grown so old in wisdom and in sin," she sighed.
He laughed. "It's a good old world but it needs a vacuum cleaner. We've got to 'get' Khodkine, Madame Rochal. He's a breeder of germs."
"And is bred of Germans----" she whispered.
"Same thing--disease in the Welt Politik--always excepting our good chauffeur----," indicating Liederman's broad back, "who is your friend and mine and therefore quite all right." Rowland was silent a moment and then turned and laid his hand over Zoya Rochal's. She turned her palm upward and their fingers clasped.
"You and I, Madame----"