"The Princess Alexia," went on the Colonel, "has a bulldog. I
have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog
was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an
Englishman."
This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence.
The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of
Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was
contemplating them both, shrewdly.
"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."
The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood
before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In
the center of the room was a table littered with books,
magazines and illustrated weeklies.
"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.
"I do not."
"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."
Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He
followed every move she made because he had never seen till now
so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped
with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as
might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual
position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was
not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of
Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the
abysmal gray of her eyes.
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