She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his
voice, to know and measure its emotion. At times she turned her
head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing. There
was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners
of her eyes. Had Maurice been there he would have seen it.
Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and
never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after
minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to
break the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could
hold Maurice very long.
"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.
He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I
was thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners
here." He told the lie rather diffidently.
"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and
the music ceased.
"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only
your mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much
to thank you for."
"Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with
her Highness's wishes.
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