“To the victor,” she cried, picking a nosegay from her basket, and kissing it, “to the victor of the spring!” and André and Statham found themselves hit in the face by the flowers. The salon rang with “Bravos” and “Huzzas” until every one woke to the discovery that the dancer had disappeared.
When she returned she was once more in her splendid robes and frigidly cynical as before.
“I am tired, gentlemen,” she said; “I must beg you to say good-night.” She held out her hand to the Vicomte. “Au revoir!” she said, permitting her eyes to study his olive-tinted cheeks and the homage of his gaze.
“Your prisoner, Madame,” he said, “your prisoner for always!”
“Or I yours?” she flashed back, swiftly.
And now she was speaking to Statham. “We shall meet again,” she said. “Yes, we shall meet again, Captain.”
“Not in London, Madame,” he answered.
“Oh, no! But I trust our meeting will be as pleasant for you as to-night has been for me.”
“It cannot fail to be.”
“Ah, you never know. Women are ever fickle and cruel,” she answered, and once again as he kissed the jewelled fingers Statham was conscious of that pathetic, pantherish light in her great eyes, which made him at once joyous, sad, and fearful.