As the candle burnt up Royda raised her head, meeting Philippa’s gaze defiantly. So for some moments the two stood eyeing each other in silence, but with very different expressions.
At length Royda spoke. “You know me, Philippa Harlberg?”
“I suppose,” she answered, “you are Fräulein d’Ivady.”
“You are quite right,” Royda said with a sneer, “and I think I could make an equally good guess as to why you are here.”
The girl, it was evident, was wild with rage, which only by a great effort she kept from bursting forth.
“Why have you brought me here?” Philippa said, with a calmness in strange contrast to the other’s excitement. “I should like to know that.”
“You expected some one else to open the door,” Royda said, in a voice which passion rendered scarcely audible.
If Philippa understood the taunt she ignored it. “I did not expect the door to open at all,” she returned quietly.
“What?” Royda burst out, no longer able to repress the passion that shook her. “Not by your lover, Aubray Zarka?”
“My lover?” Philippa dashed out. “Count Zarka is very far from being my lover.”