"I should want a royalty," he said, keeping his shining eyes on her.
"If I were satisfied I would see that you got it."
There was a long silence, during which they looked at each other.
Gillier was puzzled. He did not believe Claude Heath had shown the libretto to her. Yet she was surely prompted now by some very definite purpose. He could not guess what it was. At last he looked down at the paper he was folding mechanically.
"I haven't got anything to sell at present," he almost growled, in a very low voice.
"That's a pity. We must hope for the future. There is no reason why you and I should be mortal enemies since you haven't had a chance to murder my poor old cabbage."
"He's a coward," said Gillier.
"Of course he is. And I'm very thankful for it. Cowards live long."
She got up from the settee. Gillier, returning to his varnish, sprang up, dropping the paper, and opened the door.
"Don't forget what I said," she remarked as she went out. "Five times the price anyone else offers, on account of a royalty to be fixed by mutual agreement. But it would have to be a libretto numéro un."