“And hence this eagerness for Paris?”
She gave him a quick glance. “May be, my lord, to prolong our moment; to extend our hour.” He paused, his hand upon the door.
“And otherwise are they ended?” he asked quietly.
She let her eyes seek the door. “No—not yet.” He slowly closed the door and leaned against it.
“My dear Madeline,” he said, “let us deal frankly with each other. I am not so silly as to think you love me, though I’m willing to admit I wish you did. You have fascinated me—ever since that evening in the Hanging Garden when you made the play of being the Archduke Armand’s wife. Love may be what you style it: ‘the infatuation of the moment; the pleasure of an hour.’ If so, for you, my moment and my hour still linger. But with you, I know, there is a different motive; you may like me passing well—I believe you do—yet it was not that which brought you here, away from Paris—‘the boulevards and the music.’ You came because—well, what matters the because: you came; and for that I am very grateful; they have been pleasant days for me——“
She had been gazing through the window; now she looked him in the eyes.
“And for me as well,” she said.
“I am glad,” he answered gravely—”and it shall not be I that ends them. You wish to know if I am still the Heir Presumptive. You shall have your answer: I do not know. It rests with the King. He has the power to displace me in favor of Armand.”
She smiled comprehendingly. It was as she had feared.
“And the Princess Royal is betrothed to Armand,” she commented.