Let us hope so, at least." "I have a vague notion that you'd rejoice if we should catch your ogre and chop his head off," said he, coolly lighting a fresh cigarette.

She liked his assurance.

He was not like other men.
Glancing up at his sandy thatch, she said, with a rueful droop at the corners of her mouth, a contradictory smile in her eyes: "I shall rejoice more if you do not lose your head afterwards." "_Double entendre_ ?" "Not at all." "I thought, perhaps, you referred to an unhappy plight that already casts its shadow before," he said boldly.

"I may lose everything else, my dear Countess, but _not_ my head." "I believe you," she said, strangely serious.

"I shall remember that." She knew this man loved her.
"Sit down, now, and let us be comfy.