“I volunteered,” George Onslow answered, “because I wanted to come.” His gaze lingered hungrily on her. “And, by God! I am glad. You,” he laughed wearily, “you pretend you are not?”
“What does it matter to me whom your accursed government sends? Any man is better than a woman, such women, at least, as they employed last time.”
His eyes roamed from her jewels to the supper table.
“You have had company to-night, Enchantress?” he asked in a flash of jealousy.
“Yes,” she answered over her shoulder, “two can make very good company—sometimes. But here is what you wanted. Take it and go.”
He scanned the roll of manuscript eagerly, his eyes sparkling.
“You have not signed,” he remarked, half jestingly.
The woman opened a penknife and pushed back the lace which fringed her splendid arm at the shoulder.
“Don’t!” cried Onslow, in genuine pain. “I can’t bear——”
“Pooh!” With the few drops of blood produced by the knife she made a symbol with her pen on the roll. “From as near my heart as any man will ever get anything,” she said, replacing the lace again. “And now my pay, please.”