Haganè's smile grew almost fatherly. "In that you are no exception to the majority of your countrymen, Monsieur."
"To be accurate I should have said—a woman."
The nobleman took a long whiff at his cigarette before remarking thoughtfully, "It is an unending source of wonder to our students, Monsieur, that you of the West, even your greatest thinkers, take women so seriously. Now with us, apart from the one function of becoming the mothers of our sons, they are to men as playthings to children,—as flowers, or bright-colored birds."
"Am I to infer, then, that to your Highness one woman would be about as desirable as another?"
"Ah, Monsieur! You are caustic. Not quite that, I protest. There is discrimination, even in playthings. And we must always take into account the effect of physique,—and character,—upon possible sons."
At repetition of this sickening thought Pierre's rage gave a convulsive bound. The veins in his temples burned the skin. His delicate hands clenched themselves into steel. He grasped the pistol, brandished it wildly, and putting his face close to Haganè hissed, "Leave out the name of Yuki, and your satyr's thoughts of her, if you expect to live!"
The prince's raised hand concealed an expression of amusement. Sadness, not altogether convincing, took its place. Pierre sank back to his chair sulkily, ashamed of his violence.
Haganè's eyes lowered themselves, as if in embarrassment, to the table. He toyed with the brittle stem of a wine-glass. "It is unfortunate you are so excitable. For it was just about—Yuki—no, never mind the pistol—that I was thinking to take you into my confidence."
Le Beau stared. The prince continued thoughtfully: "You have been her friend—"
"I am her friend!"