The landlord awoke with a suddenness that was painful, and which left him staring at her in silly-eyed speechlessness.
“What ails you, man?” she demanded—“tell the Archduke I’m here—we shall be in the large room.”
This brought back a bit of his senses, and he bowed to the ground, hoping to get back more of them before he need come up.
“I will find His Royal Highness at once,” he said; “I did not know he was here—I’ve been asleep—but if Your Majesty—Your Regency—Your Highness, I mean, will permit—the large room is occupied, I will——”
At that moment, Armand and Moore came out.
“So it would seem,” the Princess remarked dryly.
“Don’t blame the poor fellow, Dehra,” the Archduke laughed; “he did the best he could, doubtless, and at my order. We are here on the business I spoke of this morning—it’s finished now, and we will ride back with you, if we may.”
Dehra held out her hand, and gave him the smile she knew he loved.
“Of course you may,” she said, “and gladly; but first I want a cup of tea—Scartman, the kettle instantly!”—and before Armand could detain her, she was past him and into the room.
As she crossed the threshold, she caught the faint perfume that a woman always carries, and which often-times is so individualized, as to betray her identity instantly. It was a peculiar odor—the blended fragrance of many flowers—and she recognized that she had known it before;—but what was it doing in this room, now!—it was too fresh to be many minutes old.