But I broke in. "Madame," I said sharply, "you have presumed beyond forbearance. Major Moore, will you escort the lady to her companions."
Moore stepped forward and, bowing very low, offered his arm. Like a flash, her face changed and she met him with a smile.
"Just a moment, if you please," she said, with softest accents. Then, with studied deliberation, she turned her back on me and swept the Princess an elaborate courtesy.
"Your Royal Highness may pardon my intrusion," she said, "when I tell you that I am Armand Dalberg's wife—— Now, Major Moore, I am ready," and she put her hand upon his arm.
But Moore never moved. Instead, he looked at me for orders.
Language is utterly inadequate to describe my feelings at that moment; so I shall not try. Imagination is better than words. I know I had an almost uncontrollable impulse for violence—and I fancy Courtney feared it, for he stepped quickly over and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Thank you, old man," I said. Then I looked at the Princess.
She was leaning carelessly back in her chair, watching the Spencer woman through half-closed eyes—-a bright flush on each cheek and: a faint smile, half sneer, half amusement, on her lips. Suddenly she looked at me, and the smile flashed out into such an one as she had given me in the Royal Box.
My heart gave a great bound—I knew she trusted me, still. I turned to the woman in black.
"Is it possible, Madame, that you claim to be my wife?" I asked.