He acknowledged the remark with a bow. "It is nothing," he replied indifferently. "Only a step toward molecules and atoms."
The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't understand chemical jargon." Her tone was dry. "I understand you are going to be famous."
The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture above the fireplace. "What would you give to know"—he nodded toward it—"that it is a genuine Dürer?"
The shrewd eyes darted at him.
The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless.
"Give! I would give"—her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of canvas and gilt and tapestry—"I would give all, everything in the room"—she raised a knotted hand toward the picture—"to know that Albrecht Dürer's monogram belongs there." The pointing finger trembled a little.
He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great room. "Everything in this room," he said slowly. "That means—" He paused, glancing toward the window.
The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor. She was leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and nodded, out of reach.
He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek.
The eyes watching her glowed softly. "Everything in this room—" He spoke very low. "The one with the rose?"