She dropped Moore's arm and took a step toward me—and, as I live, there were tears in her eyes.
"What has changed you, Armand?" she asked. "Why do you flout me so?"
I stared at her. "God help me, woman, you must be crazy!" I said.
She put out her hand appealingly. "You don't mean that, dear, surely?" And, now, the tears were in her voice, too.
"What I mean, Madame, is that you are either crazy or playing some game," I answered curtly.
She brushed aside the tears and gave me a look of almost heart-broken appeal.
"Why do you deny me, Armand?" she cried. "Have I grown ugly in the last few months? Has the beauty you used to praise turned so soon to ashes?"
Unfortunately, for me, her beauty had not turned to ashes. She was, at that very moment, the handsomest woman I had ever seen—save only the Princess. The slender figure—the magnificent neck and shoulders—the roll upon roll of jet-black hair—the almost classic face—and all in distress and trouble.
She was a picture, surely; and one that was making its impression; judging from the faces of Lord and Lady Radnor. I changed my manner.
"My dear Mrs. Spencer," I said kindly, "no one may deny your beauty—and I, least of all. But I do deny that I am your husband. You are, evidently, ill, and laboring under some queer hallucination."