“I did—” she said, looking him in the eyes.
It was lighter now. The first stars were hanging out their lamps of green and blue, and the moon was cresting the horizon lustily.
“How long ago?” the Raja asked.
“May I see Major Crespin?” she repeated.
“To place those flowers in his hands? They are Rukh-grown you know!”
“For his children,” she said.
“As you wish,” the Raja told her—after a pause. The Raja of Rukh was not unmoved. A warm heart beats always under the Oriental mask. Antony Crespin’s widow, there in her peril and loneliness, in his garden, the blossoms she’d filched from it in her hand, had reached it. He desired her. He intended to take her. But his manhood was stirred.
“To-night—it is growing late—or in the morning, Mrs. Crespin?” he asked her softly.
“Now,” she replied.
“As you wish,” he repeated.