He understood that the words contained a menace.
'I am your cousin and your humble servitor,' he said with gallantry, giving his place up to a young Spanish noble.
'Take me home,' she said to him an hour later, before the last scene of the opera. 'Come to supper. I told them to have ortolans and bisque. One is always hungry after a theatre, and we must have a last long talk, since you go to your duties and I to my sea-bathing.'
He desired to refuse; he dreaded her inquisitiveness and her solicitation; but she had a magic about her, she subdued him to her side even while he mentally resisted it. The fleshly charm of the 'Teufelinne' was potent as he wrapped her cloak about her and touched the yellow roses as he fastened it. Almost in silence he entered her carriage, and drove beside her to her house. She was silent also, affecting to yawn and be tired, but by the gleam of the lamp he saw her great black eyes glowing in the darkness, as he had seen those of a jaguar in the forests of America glow, as it watched to seize a sleeping lizard or unweary capybara.
The few streets were soon traversed by her rapid Russian horses, and together they entered the little hotel, with its strong perfume of orange flowers and jessamine from the garden about it. The midsummer stars were brilliant overhead; he looked up at them, pausing on the threshold.
'You are thinking how they shine on Wanda?' she said, with the laugh he hated. 'Probably they do nothing of the kind. I dare say she is wrapped in fog and cloud: those are the joys of the heights.'
The little supper was perfectly prepared, and served with a fine claret and some tokayer; the lights burned mellowly in the transparent gourds; the windows were open, the moonlight touched the great gold birds, the silver lilies on the walls. She had studied how to live and how to please. She held that love was born as much out of scenic effects as of the senses. In her own way she was a true artist. She had left him a few moments to change her attire to a tea-gown, which was one cloud and cascade of lace from head to foot; the yellow roses still nestled at her breast.
Stretched on a divan of oriental stuff, she put out her hand for a cigar he lighted for her, and said with a little smile:
'You cannot say I do not know how to live.'
A brutal response rose to his lips; she did not know how to bridle her life: but he could not say it. He murmured a compliment, and added: 'What a supreme artist the theatre has lost by your being born with a Countess's couronne!'