"Monsieur, she is here—the sister of M. Max! The princess!" She whispered the last word—a whisper delicious, tremulous with the weight of actual romance.
Blake heard it, and his own heart stirred to a joyous youthful sensation. It was so naïve, so charming, so absolutely French.
"The princess!" he whispered back in just the expected tone. "Jacqueline, is she beautiful?"
Jacqueline threw up her hands, invoked heaven with her eyes, earth with her shrugging shoulders.
"Monsieur, she is ravishing!"
Blake's expressive answer was to put her gently aside and step toward Max's door.
But she was after him with a little cry. "Monsieur, not yet! I must deliver my message! The message of M. Max!"
"Of M. Max?"
"But yes, monsieur!" Her hands, her whole body expressed apology and eager explanation. "M. Max has been called away—upon a business of much importance. M. Max desires his profoundest, his most affectionate excuses—and will monsieur place him under a debt never possible of repayment by entering the appartement—by entertaining the princess during his absence?"
Blake stared "In the name of Heaven—"