Dick did not reply. What he had seen stung him into a kind of madness. He was filled with reckless despair. What matter what he did, what happened to him? Of course he knew of the engagement, but the sight of them together unhinged his mind, kept him from thinking coherently.
"You seem much interested in them, my friend; do you know them well? Ah, they have finished dinner, I think. There, they are looking at us; the girl is asking who we are, or, perhaps, she has recognised you."
For a moment Dick felt his heart stop beating; yes, she was coming his way. She must pass his table in order to get out.
With a kind of despairing recklessness he seized the wineglass by his side and drained it. He was hardly master of himself; he talked rapidly, loudly.
The waiter appeared with liqueurs.
"Yes," cried the Countess, with a laugh; "I chose the wine—I must choose the liqueurs also. It is my privilege."
The waiter poured out the spirits with a deft hand, while the woman laughed. Her eyes sparkled more brightly then ever; her face had a look of set purpose.
"This is the only place in London where one can get this liqueur," she cried. "What is it? I don't know. But I am told it is exquisite. There! I drink to you!"
She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, while her eyes, large, black, bold, seductive, dangerous, flashed into his.
"Drink, my friend," she said, and her voice reached some distance around her; "it is the drink of love, of love, the only thing worth living for. Drain it to the bottom, and let us be happy."