“Camille! Camille!”
It seemed to her that if he did not hear her this must be the end of all, and she suffered an agony of terror. She thanked God as the door below was flung to and he came running up the stairs.
The Prince let her go and half turned to meet him, but Camille was not inclined to parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo slipped on the polished floor, tried to recover himself, and fell heavily at the girl’s feet.
He got up at once, and the two men stood glaring at each other. Olive looked from one to the other. “It was nothing. I am sorry,” she said breathlessly. “He was trying to—I was frightened. It was nothing, really, but—but I am glad you came.”
“So am I,” the Frenchman said grimly. His blue eyes were grown grey as steel. “I am waiting, Prince.”
A little blood had sprung from Filippo’s cut lip and run down his chin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully at the stain on the white linen before he spoke.
“Who is your friend?”
“René Gontrand.”
“No, no!” cried the girl. “Filippo, it was your fault. Can’t you be sorry and forget? Camille!”
“Hush, child,” he said, “you do not understand.”