The lady lowered the feather screen which she was holding between her
face and the fire. Regardless of the imminent danger in which she was
placing her complexion, she studied the glowing cinders for some
moments, weighing something or some persons in her mind.
"No, my friend," she answered in French, at length.
The baron's face was drawn and white. Beneath his trim black mustache
there was a momentary gleam of sharp white teeth as he bit his lip.
He came nearer to her, leaning one hand on the back of her chair,
looking down. He could only see the beautifully dressed hair, the
clean-cut profile. She continued to look into the fire, conscious of the
hand close to her shoulder.
"No, my friend," she repeated. "We know each other too well for that. It
would never do."
"But when I tell you that I love you," he said quietly, with his voice
well in control.
"I did not know that the word was in your vocabulary--you, a diplomat."
"And a man--you put the word there--Etta."
The hand-screen was raised for a moment in objection--presumably to the
Christian name of which he had made use.
He waited; passivity was one of his strong points. It had frightened men
before this.
Then, with a graceful movement, she swung suddenly round in her chair,
looking up at him. She broke into a merry laugh.
"I believe you are actually in earnest!" she cried.
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