He also knew her dress to be that of a dancer or ballerina, despite the blue brocade train that dragged a couple of yards behind her.
What or who she was he did not care, nor how she came to be in this poor inn dressed in this festal fashion.
He was pleased to see again one of the pretty creatures who had always been to him the most entrancing and beautiful objects in an entrancing and beautiful world.
He watched the gentle vision with interest and tenderness, making no movement or sound.
Suddenly she turned full on him her dark face that, although it was too broad for perfect beauty, was piquant and glowing with fine colour.
The Duke rose and bowed.
“I am Philip Wharton, Señora,” he said in Spanish.
She advanced towards him.
“I thought you were upstairs,” she said gravely.