"If I can, of course," said she, putting her fan on the table.
"You promise?" said he.
"If I have any information that can be of use to you, I 'll give it with pleasure," she agreed.
"Very good. That's a promise," said he. "Now then, for my question.
I love you. Do you love me?"
He looked hard at her.
She laughed, in acknowledgment that she had been fairly caught. Then her eyes softened.
"Yes," she said.
But before he could move, she had sprung up, and disappeared through one of the French windows, joining Miss Sandus and Adrian at the piano.
In her flight, however, she forgot her fan. It lay where she had left it on the table.
Anthony picked it up, pressed it to his face. He closed his eyes, and kept it pressed to his face. Its fragrance was more than a mere fragrance—there was something of herself in it, something poignantly, intimately personal.