"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing
to you?"
"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."
Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice
rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of
the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed
the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her
head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw,
but one that carried the mark of refinement. . . . Maurice was
thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He
possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits;
what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman
who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even
a friend? He smiled.
If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever
entered his mind or heart that he could not separate and define.
It was strange; it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long
and adroitly as he had fenced, and then to be disarmed by one
who did not even understand the foils! Surrender? Why not? . . .
By and by his gaze traveled to the chess players.
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