“What are you doing in Paris at such a time as this?” said the Princess.
The girl’s white lips parted stiffly:
“Do you need to ask?”
For a full minute the Princess bent a menacing gaze on her in silence; then:
“What do you expect from me?” she demanded in a low voice. And, stepping nearer: “What have you to expect from anyone in France on such a day as this?”
Ilse Dumont did not answer. After a moment she dropped her head and fumbled with the rags of her bodice, as though trying to cover the delicately rounded shoulders. A shaft of sunlight, reflected from the obelisk to the fountain, played in golden ripples across her hair.
Neeland looked at the Princess Naïa:
“What you do is none of my business,” he said 403 pleasantly, “but—” he smiled at her and stepped back beside Ilse Dumont, and passed his arm through hers: “I’m a grateful beast,” he added lightly, “and if I’ve nine lives to lose, perhaps Miss Dumont will save seven more of them before I’m entirely done for.”
The girl gently disengaged his arm.
“You’ll only get yourself into serious trouble,” she murmured, “and you can’t help me, dear Neeland.”