Madame Lavalette beat her little silver shoe on the gleaming floor.
“And so M. de Witt is your best friend?”
The sudden change of attack did not confuse him.
“I said so, Madame.”
“I know a better.”
She fixed her eyes boldly on his face and leant forward a little, holding the open fan.
William did not answer. He was looking away from her, through the doorway into the ballroom, where, under the picture of “War,” the Grand Pensionary conversed with M. de Pomponne.
“Your Highness can guess whom I mean,” breathed Madame Lavalette.
“Why, no, Madame.”
The fan fluttered and the mirror in the centre gave out golden rays as it caught the candlelight.