“Fail?” she said haughtily. “I never fail. There’s nothing I’ll stop at—nothing! nothing! I always get what I want. I was born that way.”
“I know; but there is a pretty tough sort of fibre in some Englishmen, and they call it honor. Well, good luck to you. And good-bye; I shall go on the 4.10.”
CHAPTER XI.
Clive drove over the next afternoon. He sat some distance from Helena at dinner, and afterward she and Mrs. Lent played billiards with himself and one of the other men for an hour; the rest of the evening was passed in the large living-room, where Clive listened to better amateur music than he had ever heard before. Some little time after the women had retired, a Chinese servant entered the dining-room, where the men were drinking brandy-and-soda, and said to Clive—
“Missee Hellee wantee slee you in bludoir.”
“What?” asked Clive stupidly.
“Her gracious Majesty is pleased to signify that she will give you audience in her boudoir,” said Rollins, who stood beside him.
“But I can’t go to her room at this hour. It’s one o’clock.”
“That is her affair. Besides, no one else need know. Follow the Mongolian. If you don’t it’s like her to come here and order you to go.”
The Chinaman left Clive at the door of the boudoir. The room was empty and dimly lit. The air was heavy with the scent of the roses beyond the window. Clive looked up into the forest. The aisles were too black for shadows, although the huge trunks were defined. The mysterious arbors above sang gently.