Saltash was looking supremely ironical.  “Perhaps new,” he said.  “More likely—­very old.  His name is Larpent, and he is the captain of my yacht.”

CHAPTER V

THE DANCE OF DEATH

“We will watch from the gallery,” said Saltash.

Toby looked up at him with quick gratitude.  “There won’t be so many people there,” she said.

He frowned at her, but his look was quizzical.  “But everyone will know that Lady Saltash is present—­with her husband,” he said.

She slipped a persuasive hand on to his arm.  “King Charles,” she said, “let us leave Paris!”

“Bored?” said Saltash.

Her face was slightly drawn.  “No—­no!  Only—­” she paused; then suddenly flashed him her swift smile—­“let it be as you wish!” she said.

He flicked her cheek in his careless, caressing way.  “Shall I tell you something, mignonne?  We are going—­very soon.”

Her eyes shone, more blue than the frock she wore She stooped impulsively and touched his hand with her lips, then, as though she feared to anger him, drew quickly away.

“Shall we go on the yacht?” she asked, eagerness half-suppressed in her voice.

“Yes,” said Saltash, and he spoke with finality, even with a certain grimness.

Toby’s face lighted up for a second, and then clouded again.  She glanced at him doubtfully.  “If Paris amuses you—­” she ventured.

“Paris does not amuse me,” said Saltash emphatically.  “Have a cigarette, ma chere, while I go and dress.”

“Can I help you dress?” said Toby, with a touch of wistfulness.  “I have put everything ready.”

His odd eyes flashed her a smile.  “Not here, cherie, not now.  Perhaps—­when we get on a yacht again—­”

He was gone, leaving the sentence unfinished, leaving Toby looking after him with the wide eyes of one who sees at last a vision long desired.  She stretched out both her arms as the door closed upon him and her lips repeated very softly the words that he had last uttered.

“Perhaps—­when we got on a yacht again—­”

When they went down to the great salle-a-manger a little later, her face was flushed and her smile ready, though she glanced about her in a shy, half-furtive fashion as they entered.  They found a secluded table reserved for them in a corner, and her eyes expressed relief.  She shrank into it as if she would make herself as small as possible.  Again no one accosted them though a good many looked in their direction.  Saltash was far too well known a figure to pass unnoticed in any fashionable crowd.  But the general attention did not centre upon them.  That was absorbed by a far greater attraction that night.

She sat at the end of the room like a queen holding her court, and beside her sat the Viking, stern-faced and remote of mien, as supremely isolated as though he sat with her on a desert island.  He spoke but seldom, and then to her exclusively.  But when he spoke, she turned to him the radiant face of the woman who holds within her grasp her heart’s desire.