“The fortunes of war ...”
Her hands rose unconsciously, with an uncertain movement. Her face was soft with an elusive bloom of unwonted feeling. Her eyes held a puzzled look, as if she did not quite understand what was moving her so deeply.
“You are a strange man, monsieur....”
“And what shall one say of madame la princesse?”
She could but laugh; and laughter rings the death-knell of constraint.
But Lanyard remembered uneasily that somebody—Solomon or some other who must have led an interesting life—had remarked that the lips of a strange woman are smoother than oil.
“None the less, monsieur, I am deeply in your debt.”
His smile of impersonal courtesy failed. He was becoming more sensitive than he liked to her charm and the warm sentiment she was giving out to him. This strange access in her of haunting loveliness, the gentle shadows that lay beneath her wide—yet languorous eyes, the almost imperceptible tremor of her sweetly fashioned lips, all troubled him profoundly. He exerted himself to break the spell upon his senses which this woman, wittingly or not, was weaving. But the effort was at best half-hearted.
“I am well repaid,” he said a bit stiffly, “by the knowledge that the honour of madame la princesse is safe.”
Sofia laughed breathlessly. Somehow her hands had found the way to his. Her glance wavered and fell.