She had never committed an
indiscretion; passion had never swayed her; until now she had
lived by calculation. As she looked at him, she knew that in all
her wide demesne no soldier could stand before him and look
straight into his eyes. So deep and honest a book it was, so
easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages. Love
him? No. Be his wife? No. She recognized that it was the feline
instinct to play which dominated her. Consequences? Therein lay
the charm of it.
"Patience, Monsieur," she said. "Did I promise to be your wife?
Did I say that I loved you? ~Eh, bien~, the woman, not the
princess, made those vows. I am mistress not only of my duchy,
but of my heart." She ceased and regarded him with watchful eves.
He did not turn. "Look at me, John!" The voice was of such
winning sweetness that St. Anthony himself, had he heard it,
must have turned. "Look at me and see if I am more a princess
than a woman."
He wheeled swiftly. She was leaning toward him, her face was
upturned. No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes.
From the threaded ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the
fabulous myrrhs of Olympus.
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