Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It
was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve
to alter this fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay
underneath?
Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame
when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw
that Madame was returning this cursory investigation. There was,
however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious
glances. In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in
the other, cold calculation. At no time did the conversation
touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away--if
surface indications went for aught.
Finally the Colonel rose. "A toast--to Madame the duchess, since
this is her very best wine!"
Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered
his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in
Madame's eyes grew small.
"That is scarcely polite, Monsieur," she said.
"Madame," he replied gently, "my parole did not include toasts
to her Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and
seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is
good.
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