“My task, I confess, is a most disagreeable one,” she resumed, lightly beating her gauntlets together; “but when one serves high personages one is supposed not to have any sentiments.” To Fitzgerald she said: “You are the son of the late Lord Fitzgerald.”
“For your sake, I regret to say that I am.”
“For my sake? Worry yourself none on that point. As the agent of her Highness I am inconsiderable.”
“Madame,” said Maurice, “will you do us the honor to inform us to whom we are indebted for this partiality to our distinguished persons?”
“I am Sylvia Amerbach,” quietly.
“Amerbach?” said Maurice, who was familiar with the great names of the continent. “Pardon me, but that was once a famous name in Prussia.”
“I am distantly related to that house of princes,” looking at her gauntlets.
“Well, Madame, since your business doubtless concerns me, pray, begin;” and Fitzgerald leaned against the mantelpiece and fumbled with the rim of his monocle.
Maurice walked to one of the windows and perched himself on the broad sill. He began to whistle softly:
Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote....