Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was returning this cursory investigation. There was, however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious glances. In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation. At no time did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away—if surface indications went for aught.
Finally the Colonel rose. “A toast—to Madame the duchess, since this is her very best wine!”
Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in Madame's eyes grew small.
“That is scarcely polite, Monsieur,” she said.
“Madame,” he replied gently, “my parole did not include toasts to her Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is good. Permit me to withdraw the duchess and substitute yourself.”
“Do so, if it will please you. In truth, it was bad taste in you, count, to suggest it.”
“It's all the same to me;” and the Colonel refilled his glass and nodded.
The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge of the mild reproach which had been administered to him.
“I plead guilty to the impeachment. It was very wrong. Far from it that I should drink to the health of the Philistines. Madame the countess was beating me down with her eyes, and I did not think.”
“I was not even looking at you!” declared the countess, blushing.