“Yes,” returned the princess, smiling her slight, amused smile at Drexel. “But still I would not think of disputing the matter with Monsieur Drexel. Americans are so clever, you know.”
They all laughed at this. Drexel felt his conclusions going all to pieces, felt himself plunged again into the old uncertainty.
“Just a stupid mistake on my part, of course,” he said, rather doggedly. “I hope the princess will pardon me.”
After that the talk ran back to its subject before Drexel had entered—welcome to the princess—gossip about this person and that—chat about functions to come. Drexel was left quite out of the conversation, but this gave him time to form a determination to outstay all the others and have it out with the princess in private. This plan, however, was not so easy of achievement. The others, to be sure, took their leave in ones and pairs, but more callers came in their stead. He got a polite glance from the princess now and then, which, being interpreted, meant that he had far exceeded the limits of a call. But he sat grimly on.
At length he had his reward. But he was certain of having her to himself for no more than a moment, so the instant the last back was out of the door he drew his chair before her, leaned forward, and looked her squarely in the face.
“Princess,” said he in English, “you have the makings of the greatest poker player in the world.”
“Pokair playair!” returned she in her halting English. Her face was puzzled. “I not understand.”
“Do you know what a ‘bluffer’ is?”
“‘Bluffair’? Yes, I know. A vair American word.”
“Well, you could make the biggest bluffer in America seem a naïve child.”