Florent greeted him with his habitual brevity and went to the fire. He was chilled, his garments damp; even here the mist had penetrated, and filled the room with a salt sense of wet and cold.
St. Croix ordered dinner and, leaning back, surveyed his company.
Florent looked up suddenly. The firelight stained his linen collar, his pale face, to ruddiness.
“I delivered your letter.”
The Frenchman answered, not allowing himself to show any satisfaction—
“I thought you would.”
Florent was silent a while, rubbing his hands together over the blaze.
“How do you hope to receive an answer?” he said at last.
“If the Prince wishes to send one he will contrive it.”
Florent started at that.