She turned and stared at the duke, who shrugged. “No, no,” she said; “the duchess, not the devil.”
“Pardon me; I was astonished. But on the stage you are still Flora Desimone?”
“Yes. And now that my identity is established, who are you and what do you want at this time of night?”
The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which to betray her temper.
“I am Edward Courtlandt.”
“The devil!” mimicked the diva.
She and the duke heard a chuckle.
“I beg your pardon again, Madame.”
“Well, what is it you wish?” amiably.
The duke looked at her perplexedly. It seemed to him that she was always leaving him in the middle of things. Preparing himself for rough roads, he would suddenly find the going smooth. He was never swift enough mentally to follow these flying transitions from enmity to amity. In the present instance, how was he to know that his tigress had found in the man below something to play with?