“Madame still lingers at The Hague,” he said.
“As you see.”
“And is the game worth the candle?”
He laid his hand tentatively on a chair, and looked towards her with an interrogative glance. He would not, it appeared, sit down without her permission. And, womanlike, she gave it, with a shrug of one shoulder. A woman rarely refuses a challenge. “And is the game worth the candle?” he repeated.
“One can only tell when it is played out,” was the reply; and Herr von Holzen glanced quickly at the lady who made it.
He turned away and listened to the music. An occasional concert was the one diversion he allowed himself at this time from his most absorbing occupation of making a fortune. He had probably a real love of music, which is not by any means given to the good only, or the virtuous. Indeed, it is the art most commonly allied to vice.
“By the way,” said Von Holzen, after a pause, “that paper which it pleased madame's fantasy to possess at one time—is destroyed. Its teaching exists only in my unworthy brain.”
He turned and looked at her with his slow smile, his measuring eyes.
“Ah!”
“Yes; so madame need give the question no more thought, and may turn her full attention to her new—fancy.”