“Many others?” he asked.
She faced about, and raising the parasol swung it between them.
“A million—for your hearts,” she answered, and ran quickly down the steps.
Meanwhile the Duke of Lotzen, passing along the lower corridor, had caught, in a mirror, the reflection of the scene on the stairs, and had paused to watch it.
“A pretty picture, Mademoiselle; truly, a pretty picture,” he said, as they met; “and most charming from the rear—and below—oh! most charming.”
Her cheeks and brow went red as flame, as she caught his meaning.
“You vile peeper,” she exclaimed; “doubtless, you’re an experienced judge,” and dropping the parasol in his face, nor caring that the silk struck him, she hurried by.
The Duke looked after her contemplatively. Really, this girl was worth while—he must take a hand in the Irishman’s game—that hair, those eyes, that walk, that figure—oh, decidedly, she was quite worth while.
With an evil little laugh, he put her out of his mind, for the moment, and turned toward the terrace and to business. He had learned of the alfresco luncheon near the pergola, and he appreciated that there was the place to make the first move in his new plot.
Yet when, from the sun-dial, as he feigned to study it, he saw the Princess, through the rhododendrons—with the American across the table from her, where he himself ought to have been; and watched her lavish upon Armand the adorable smile that should have been his; and knew, afresh, that, come what may, the glorious woman yonder was lost to him forever—his anger welled so high he dared not risk a meeting, lest in his rage he wreck his cause completely. So he braced his shoulders against the fierce desire that tugged him toward them, and went on, giving no glance aside.