She glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him:
“Forgive me; I would not change places with a queen.”
“Nor I with any man!” he cried gayly. “Am I not Paris?”
“And I?”
“You are Hélène,” he said, laughing. “Let me see—Paris and Hélène would not have changed—”
She interrupted him impatiently. “Words! you do not mean them. Nor do I, either,” she added, hastily. After that neither spoke for a while. Gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. Presently she glanced up.
“Paris, do you want to smoke?”
“You don’t think I would smoke in this dainty nest?”
“Please do, I like it. We are—we will be such very good friends. There are matches on that table in the silver box.”
He shook his head, laughing. “You are too indulgent.”