For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what
was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were
sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a
vine to a trellis.
Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is
affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we
do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly
became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his
nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which
separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal
Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated
the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of her exquisite
skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay
the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except
on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that
the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before
he reached her side.
"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the
fib, "that you would not come after all."
"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied,
his eyes ardent.
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