The violins struck up a French sarabande, and the dancers began to move slowly to the stately melody.
The Prince looked across the ballroom to where M. de Witt, noticeable in black velvet, stood in the doorway talking to a little group of gentlemen, and so absorbed was he in his scrutiny that he did not hear the Princess rise.
She had to touch him on the arm to attract his attention.
“M. de Pomponne, William.”
He turned quickly.
The Princess swept a courtesy before she sank again into her gilt chair, and the Marquis, gorgeously dressed in crimson satin, bowed till his long love-locks hid his face.
“Is not the Prince dancing, Highness?” he asked.
William’s intent gaze was now fixed on the Frenchman; he said nothing.
The Princess shrugged her shoulders, half vexed.
“You must ask him, Monsieur.”