Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. “Thank you,” she said coolly. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service.
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