Her smile grew broader.
"Really, Duke, you are most delicious," she said. "Armand Dalberg told me, the other day, that I played my part beautifully—he should see you. You are a premier artiste."
"Madame flatters me," Lotzen answered with soft irony; then tried for her hand—and failed.
"Well, you may take it so," said she; "but, believe me, your cousin didn't mean it so, to me."
He moved over and sat on the edge of the table near her.
She leaned far back and put her hands behind her.
"Come, my dear, don't be so mysterious," he said.
"Let us be frank, as you suggest. You say you are not Armand's wife—that, I am only too glad to believe; I am delighted. You say I have always known it—that, of course, is a mistake. You say I am playing a part, now—that, I don't understand."
"Premier artiste, surely," she laughed. Then, suddenly, grew sober. "By all means, let us have a frank talk," she said. "It was for that I asked you here to-night—But, first, light me a cigarette, and then go and sit down in that chair."
"Buy me with a smile," he said.