The play and curve of her lips stung him. He flung himself desperately into his mad love-making. “‘Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d’amour,’” he quoted from Moliere. “’Tis true, Aileen; I die of love; it burns me up,” he added passionately, hungry eyes devouring the flying colours of her cheek, the mass of rippling hair, the fresh, sweet, subtle fragrance of her presence.
“You’ll have to hurry about it then, for on my soul you’re due to die of tightened hemp to-morrow,” I told him, lounging forward from the door.
The girl cried out, eyes dilating, hand pressing to the heart. For the man, after the first start he did not turn a hair. The face that looked over his shoulder at me was unmoved and bereft of emotion.
“My malapropos friend Montagu again. Devil take it, you have an awkward way of playing harlequin when you’re not wanted! Now to come blundering in upon a lady and her friend is— Well, not the best of form. Better drop it before it becomes a habit,” he advised.
“’Slife, ’tis tit for tat! I learnt it from you,” was my answer.
Long we looked at each other, preparing for the battle that was to come. Save for the quick breathing of the girl no sound fell.
“Sir Robert, your audacity confounds all precedent,” I said at last.
“You flatter me, Mr. Montagu.”
“Believe me, had Major Macleod discovered you instead of me your soul had by this time been speeding hellward.”
“Exit Flattery,” he laughed. “The lady phrased it less vilely. Heavenward, she put it! ’Twould be interesting to know which of you is right.”