Part 33 (1/2)

He stepped forward and bent his head for a moment. Afterwards, as he drew back, the smile upon his lips broadened until he showed all his teeth. It was a veritable triumph. Mr. Sabin, taken wholly by surprise, had not been able to conceal his consternation.

”It is not possible,” he exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. ”He would not dare.”

But in his heart he knew that the Prince had spoken the truth.

CHAPTER XXIII

”After all,” said the Prince, looking up from the wine list, ”why cannot I be satisfied with you? And why cannot you be satisfied with me? It would save so much trouble.”

Lady Carey, who was slowly unwinding the white veil from her picture hat, shrugged her shoulders.

”My dear man,” she said, ”you could not seriously expect me to fall in love with you.”

The Prince sipped his wine--a cabinet hock of rare vintage--and found it good. He leaned over towards his companion.

”Why not?” he asked. ”I wish that you would try--in earnest, I mean.

You are capable of great things, I believe--perhaps of the great pa.s.sion itself.”

”Perhaps,” she murmured derisively.

”And yet,” he continued, ”there has always been in our love-making a touch of amateurishness. It is an awkward word, but I do not know how better to explain myself.”

”I understand you perfectly,” she answered. ”I can also, I think, explain it. It is because I never cared a rap about you.”

The Prince did not appear altogether pleased. He curled his fair moustache, and looked deprecatingly at his companion. She had so much the air of a woman who has spoken the truth.

”My dear Muriel!” he protested.

She looked at him insolently.

”My good man,” she said, ”whatever you do don't try and be sentimental.

You know quite well that I have never in my life pretended to care a rap about you--except to pa.s.s the time. You are altogether too obvious. Very young girls and very old women would rave about you. You simply don't appeal to me. Perhaps I know you too well. What does it matter!”

He sighed and examined a sauce critically. They were lunching at Prince's alone, at a small table near the wall.

”Your taste,” he remarked a little spitefully, ”would be considered a trifle strange. Souspennier carries his years well, but he must be an old man.”

She sipped her wine thoughtfully.

”Old or young,” she said, ”he is a man, and all my life I have loved men,--strong men. To have him here opposite to me at this moment, mine, belonging to me, the slave of my will, I would give--well, I would give--a year of my life--my new tiara--anything!”

”What a pity,” he murmured, ”that we cannot make an exchange, you and I, Lucille and he!”

”Ah, Lucille!” she murmured. ”Well, she is beautiful. That goes for much. And she has the grand air. But, heavens, how stupid!”

”Stupid!” he repeated doubtfully.

She drummed nervously upon the tablecloth with her fingers.

”Oh, not stupid in the ordinary way, of course, but yet a fool. I should like to see man or devil try and separate us if I belonged to him--until I was tired of him. That would come, of course. It comes always. It is the hideous part of life.”