to profess
my love, to find some means of declaring it to you. I love you. To what
further depths can I fall to prove it?" Again he sought the window, and
leaned heavily on the sill. He waited, as a man waits for an expected
blow.

As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a
sensation elusive and intangible. She surrendered without question. At
this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions. Here was a man. The
mood which seized her was as novel as this love which asked nothing but
love, and the willingness to pay any price; and the desire to test both
mood and love to their full strength was irresistible. She was loved for
herself alone; hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess
more. To surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day,
to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.

He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not quite as
old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as high as she stood
in hers. 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 eyes. 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. Her lips were a cup of wine, and her eyes bade him drink,
and the taste of that wine haunted him as long as he lived. He made as
though to drain the cup, but Madame pushed down his arms, uttered a low,
puzzled laugh, and vanished from the room. He was lost! He knew it; yet
he did not care. He threw