They were at the top of the second flight of stairs by this time and quite a distance from the treasure chamber.  His coolness, the absence of any sign of returning sentiment, was puzzling her sorely.  Every vestige of that emotion which had overwhelmed him during their sweet encounter was gone, to all appearances:  he was as calm and as matter-of-fact as if she were the merest stranger.  She was trying to find the solution—­trying to read the mind of this smiling philosopher.  Half an hour before, she had been carried away, rendered, helpless by the passion that swayed him; now he spoke and looked as if he had forgotten the result of his storming.  Strangely enough, she was piqued.

When they came into the well-lighted upper corridor he proceeded ruthlessly to upset all of her harsh calculations.  They were now traversing the mosaic floors of the hall that led to the lower terraces.  He stopped suddenly, stepping directly in front of her.  As she drew up in surprise, he reached down and took both of her hands in his.  For the moment, she was too amazed to oppose this sudden action.  She looked up into his face, many emotions in her own—­reproof, wonder, dismay, hauteur—­joy!

“Wait,” he said gently.  They were quite alone.  The stream of daylight from the distant French windows barely reached to this quiet spot.  She saw the most wonderful light in his grey eyes; her lips parted in quick, timorous confusion.  “I love you.  I am sorry for what I did down there.  I couldn’t help it—­nor could you.  Yet I took a cruel advantage of you.  I know what you’ve been thinking, too.  You have been saying to yourself that I wanted to see how far I could go—­don’t speak!  I know.  You are wrong.  I’ve absolutely worshipped you since those first days in Thorberg—­wildly, hopelessly—­day and night.  I was afraid of you—­yes, afraid of you because you are a princess.  But I’ve got over all that, Genevra.  You are a woman—­a living, real woman with the blood and the heart and the lips that were made for men to crave.  I want to tell you this, here in the light of day, not in the darkness that hid all the truth in me except that which you might have felt in my kiss.”

“Please, please don’t,” she said once more, her lip trembling, her eyes full of the softness that the woman who loves cannot hide.  “You shall not go on!  It is wrong!”

“It is not wrong,” he cried passionately.  “My love is not wrong.  I want you to understand and to believe.  I can’t hope that you will be my wife—­it’s too wildly improbable.  You are not for such as I. You are pledged to a man of your own world—­your own exalted world.  But listen, Genevra—­see, my eyes call you darling even though my lips dare not—–­ Genevra, I’d give my soul to hear you say that you will be my wife.  You do understand how it is with me?”

The delicious sense of possession thrilled her; she glowed with the return of her self-esteem, in the restoration of that quality which proclaimed her a princess of the blood.  She was sure of him now!  She was sure of herself.  She had her emotions well in hand.  And so, despite the delicious warmth that swept through her being, she chose to reveal no sign of it to him.