“Thank you, Monseigneur.”
St. Croix bowed till his yellow, frizzled hair fell over his face.
De Pomponne gave him a nod and a wave of a plump hand, which careless dismissal was all that he deigned.
When St. Croix had gone he leant forward and looked into the inner room.
His wife had left it, Madame Lavalette sat alone, fingering the red and white pieces. The Marquis de Pomponne rose and walked slowly over to her.
She turned on him large, deep blue and languishing eyes.
“I have just solved my problem,” she said in a low and pretty voice.
“And I, Madame, want you to help me solve mine.”
“Ah?” She sank back in her stiff chair, and taking up the red king turned him about in her fingers.
The Marquis leant carelessly against the carved window frame.