That was all; that was the sum of their expression. No other word was spoken. They sat silent, watching the cigarette burn itself out between Maxine's fingers.
She held it to the very last, then dropped it into her finger-bowl and rose.
"Now, mon cher!" In the dim light she looked very tall and slight and seemed possessed of a curious dignity. All the animation had left her face, beneath the eyes were shadows, and in the eyes a tragic sadness—the sadness that the soul creates for itself.
Blake rose also and, side by side, very quietly, they left the restaurant. In the street outside, the cab that had assisted in the day's adventures still waited their pleasure.
He handed her to her place and paused, his foot upon the step.
"And now, liege lady—where?"
She looked at him gravely and answered without a tremor, "To Max's studio."
Surprise—if surprise touched him—showed not at all upon his face. He gave the order quietly and explicitly, and took his place beside her.
Down the broad street of Versailles they wheeled, but both were too preoccupied to see the lurking ghosts of a past régime that lie so palpably in the shadows, and presently Blake's hand found hers once more.
"You are cold?"