Something like a smile wavered for a moment beneath his waxed mustache.
Catrina's fingers, supple and strong, struck in great chords the air of a gloomy march from the half-forgotten muse of some monastic composer.
While she played, Claude de Chauxville proceeded with his delicate touch to play on the hidden chords of an untamed heart.
"A man's privilege," he repeated musingly.
"Need it be such ?" she asked.
For the first time his eyes met hers.
"Not necessarily," he answered, and her eyes dropped before his narrow gaze.
He sat back in his chair, content for the moment with the progress he had made.

He glanced at the countess.

He was too experienced a man to be tricked.

The countess was really asleep.

Her cap was on one side, her mouth open.