Mademoiselle of the Veil was paying not so much attention to the Colonel's words as she was to Maurice's whistle.
“Monsieur,” she said, coldly, “have you no other tune in your repertory?”
“Pardon me!” exclaimed Maurice. “I did not intend to annoy you.” He stepped down out of the window.
“You do not annoy me; only the tune grows rather monotonous.”
“I will whistle anything you may suggest,” he volunteered.
She did not respond to this flippancy, though the pupils of her gray eyes grew large with anger. She walked the length of the room and back.
“Count, what do you think would be most satisfactory to her Highness, under the circumstances?”
“I have yet to hear of her Highness' disapproval of anything you undertake.”
“Messieurs, your parole d'honneur, and the freedom of the chateau is yours—within the sentry lines. I wish to make your recollections of the Red Chateau rather pleasant than otherwise. I shall be most happy if you will honor my table with your presence.”
The Colonel coughed, Maurice smoothed the back of his head, and Fitzgerald caught up his monocle.