"Whoever you get married to, you will always like me best, won't you?"
"Why, of course," said Cyprian. "Of course..."
Her breathing became contentedly regular.
* * * * * *
Downstairs, Muriel Vane had been very clever at his expense.
More like a siren than ever, perched behind the looming rock of the grand piano, a few gleaming threads of escaping hair picked out against the background of polished wood, while, every now and again, her fingers rippled the accompanying chords of some haunting French song.
She usually sang in French.
"To shock folk in legitimate ignorance," she informed Captain Wright, leaning over her with every symptom of shortly shedding his bones in the vicinity.
"Dear Muriel!" placidly reproved Mrs. Carmichael. She did not understand sung French, or for that matter, any but the brand which, by dint of firm repetition, brings you your hot water and "Du thé—pas chocolat. Pas!" in Parisian hotels at eight a.m.
Muriel's sort of French was of little use to anyone but foreigners, and there were so seldom foreigners present.