I faced about.
"Very," I said bluntly.
She put out a hand, as though to ward off a blow, and her face flushed, an instant.
"Armand, my dear———" she began.
I turned my back and walked toward the window.
Then, there came the rustle of silk behind me—a soft arm was flung about my neck, and a tear-choked voice exclaimed:
"Haven't you one kind word for me, dear?"
I reached up and put her arm sharply aside.
"It seems to me, madame, there has been enough of this nonsense," I said. "There is no gallery here to play to, as you had in the Hanging Garden."
She studied my face a moment—drawing her tiny lace handkerchief nervously from hand to hand.