He glanced round with set, cold face.
It seemed to him no other woman could look so lovely and desirable as the girl entering.
Pansy was wearing a flounced dress of some soft pink silky material that spread around her like the petals of a flower. The one great diamond sparkled on her breast—a dewdrop in the heart of a half-blown rose.
On seeing her Le Breton caught his breath sharply. This girl the daughter of his father's murderer! This lovely half-blown English rose! What a trick Fate had played him!
Then, ashamed of his momentary craving, he faced her, a cruel smile on his lips.
There was a brief silence.
Pansy looked at him, thinking she had never seen him so handsome, so proud, so aloof, so hard as now. He stood watching her coldly with no word of welcome, no greeting on his lips.
He was the first to speak. And he said none of the things Pansy was expecting and was prepared for.
"Why did you tell me your name was Langham?" he asked in a peremptory manner.
"It is Langham," she answered, with some surprise.