“What is it, Chris? Where have you been? Where is Uncle Nic going? Tell me!”
Christian tore herself away. “I don't know,” she cried, “I know nothing!”
Greta stroked her face. “Poor Chris!” she murmured. Her bare feet gleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress. “Come to bed, poor Chris!”
Christian laughed. “You little white moth! Feel how hot I am! You'll burn your wings!”
XVI
Harz had lain down, fully dressed. He was no longer angry, but felt that he would rather die than yield. Presently he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“M'sieu!”
It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an expression of ironical disgust.
“My master,” he said, “makes you his compliments; he says there is no time to waste. You are to please come and drive with him!”