De Launay laughed, recalling his unfortunate words with the banker to the effect that the only reason he’d ever marry would be as a result of a bet. Mademoiselle’s ascendency was vanishing rapidly. Her naïve assumption swept away the last vestiges of his awe.
“Why do you wear that veil?” he asked abruptly.
She raised her hand to it doubtfully. “Why?” she echoed.
“If I am to marry you, is it to be sight unseen?”
“It is merely because—it is because there is something that causes comment and makes it embarrassing to me. It is nothing—nothing repulsive, monsieur,” she was pleading, now. “At least, I think not. But it makes the soldiers call me——”
“Morgan la fée?”
“Yes. Then you must know?” There was relief in her words.
“No. I have merely wondered why they called you that.”
“It is on account of my eyes. They are—queer, 63 perhaps. And my hair, which I also hide under the cap. The poor soldiers ascribe all sorts of—of virtues to them. Magic qualities, which, of course, is silly. And others—are not so kind.”
In De Launay’s mind was running a verse from William Morris’ “Earthly Paradise.” He quoted it, in English: