“One would think you were a Hungarian!” she said scornfully, oblivious of the significance of her failure to comment upon the ancient ocean that rolled between them. “They need only a spark, and are accustomed to women who are always expectant of the language of love. From Alexandra I have gathered that the American man has been too well educated by his women to let himself go until he is sure he will not be laughed at, and that he is greatly assisted by the national frigidity of temperament.”
“What you learn of the national temperament will be from me, not from my sister.”
Ranata was now fully alive to her rôle. That her being was still in tumult, her brain alert with womanly curiosity, mattered nothing; she would follow her programme to the end. If that end were unimaginable for the woman, it was defined enough for the princess.
“I should like to know one man in my life,” she murmured. “And you are an American—the only one I ever could know, I suppose. I find the prospect rather delightful. But you must not insist upon flirting with me. It would be an unfair advantage—I am terribly unskilled.”
“I have not the slightest intention of flirting with you. I have had no time to learn the a b c of flirtation. Nor do I waste my time.”
“How long shall you stay in Hungary?”
“I know less about that than you do.”
“But you do not take long vacations. Surely, your enormous interests in America—they must demand your attention before long.”
“My enormous interests can—take care of themselves.”
The blood ran up to Ranata’s hair. For a second she forgot her rôle. She tasted the sweets of woman’s power for the first time, and wondered at the barrenness of the regal. “Would you stay here if your great fortune were in danger—if—”