A few days later, CornÉlie was expecting a visit from the prince, who had asked her for an appointment. She was sitting at her writing-table, correcting proofs of her article. A lamp on the writing-table cast a soft glow over her through a yellow silk shade; and she wore her tea-gown of white crÊpe de Chine, with a bunch of violets at her breast. Another lamp, on a pedestal, cast a second gleam from a corner; and the room flickered in cosy intimacy with the third light from the log-fire, falling over water-colours by Duco, sketches and photographs, white anenomes in vases, violets everywhere and one tall palm. The writing-table was littered with books and printed sheets, bearing witness to her work.

There was a knock at the door; and, at her “Come in,” the prince entered. She remained seated for a moment, laid down her pen and rose. She went up to him with a smile and held out her hand. He kissed it. He was very smartly dressed in a frock-coat, with a silk hat and pale-grey gloves; he wore a pearl pin in his tie. They sat down by the fire and he paid her compliments in quick succession, on her sitting-room, her dress and her eyes. She made a jesting reply; and he asked if he was disturbing her:

“Perhaps you were writing an interesting letter to some one near your heart?”

“No, I was revising some proofs.”

“Proofs?”

“Yes.”

“Do you write?”

“I have just begun to.”

“A story?”

“No, an article.”

“An article? What about?”

She gave him the long title. He looked at her open-mouthed. She laughed gaily:

“You would never have believed it, would you?”

“Santa Maria!” he murmured in surprise, unaccustomed in his own world to “modern” women, taking part in a feminist movement. “Dutch?”

“Yes, Dutch.”

“Write in French next time: then I can read it.”

She laughed and gave her promise, poured him out a cup of tea, handed the chocolates. He nibbled at them:

“Are you so serious? Have you always been? You were not serious the other day.”

“Sometimes I am very serious.”

“So am I.”

“I gathered that. If I had not come that time, you might have become very serious.”

He gave a fatuous laugh and looked at her knowingly:

“You are a wonderful woman!” he said. “Very interesting and very clever. What you want to happen happens.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes what I want also. Sometimes I also am very clever. When I want a thing. But generally I don’t want it.”

“You did the other day.”

He laughed:

“Yes! You were cleverer than I then. To-morrow perhaps I shall be cleverer than you.”

“Who knows!”

They both laughed. He nibbled the chocolates in the dish, one after the other, and asked if he might have a glass of port instead of tea. She poured him out a glass.

“May I give you something?”

“What?”

“A souvenir of our first acquaintance.”

“It is very charming of you. What is it to be?”

He took something wrapped in tissue-paper from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened the little parcel and saw a strip of old Venetian lace, worked in the shape of a flounce, for a low bodice.

“Do accept it,” he besought her. “It is a lovely piece. It is such a pleasure to me to give it to you.”

She looked at him with all her coquetry in her eyes, as though she were trying to see through him.

“You must wear it like this.”

He stood up, took the lace and draped it over her white tea-gown from shoulder to shoulder. His fingers fumbled with the folds, his lips just touched her hair.

She thanked him for his gift. He sat down again:

“I am glad that you will accept it.”

“Have you given Miss Hope something too?”

He laughed, with his little laugh of conquest:

“Patterns are all she wants, patterns of the queen’s ball-dresses. I wouldn’t dare to give you patterns. To you I give old lace.”

“But you nearly ruined your career for the sake of that pattern?”

“Oh, well!” he laughed.

“Which career?”

“Oh, don’t!” he said, evasively. “Tell me, what do you advise me to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Shall I marry her?”

“I am against all marriage, between cultivated people.”

She wanted to repeat some of her phrases, but thought to herself, why? He would not understand them. He looked at her profoundly, with his carbuncle eyes:

“So you are in favour of free love?”

“Sometimes. Not always. Between cultivated people.”

He was certain now, had any doubt still lingered in his mind, that a liaison existed between her and Van der Staal.

“And do you think me ... cultivated?”

She laughed provocatively, with a touch of scorn in her voice:

“Listen. Shall I speak to you seriously?”

“I wish you would.”

“I consider neither you nor Miss Hope suited for free love.”

“So I am not cultivated?”

“I don’t mean it in the sense of being civilized. I mean modern culture.”

“So I am not modern.”

“No,” she said, slightly irritated.

“Teach me to be modern.”

She gave a nervous laugh:

“Oh, don’t let us talk like this! You want to know my advice. I advise you not to marry Urania.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would both of you have a wretched life. She is a dear little American parvenue....”

“I am offering her what I possess; she is offering me what she possesses....”

He nibbled at the chocolates. She shrugged her shoulders:

“Then marry her,” she said, with indifference.

“Tell me that you don’t want me to and I won’t.”

“And your father? And the marchesa?”

“What do you know about them?”

“Oh ... everything and nothing!”

“You are a demon!” he exclaimed. “An angel and a demon! Tell me, what do you know about my father and the marchesa?”

“For how much are you selling yourself to Urania? For not less than ten millions?”

He looked at her in bewilderment.

“But the marchesa thinks five enough. And a very handsome sum it is: five millions. Which is it, dollars or lire?”

He clapped his hands together:

“You are a devil!” he cried. “You are an angel and a devil! How do you know? How do you know? Do you know everything?”

She flung herself back in her chair and laughed:

“Everything.”

“But how?”

She looked at him and shook her head tantalizingly.

“Tell me.”

“No. It’s my secret.”

“And you think that I ought not to sell myself?”

“I dare not advise you as regards your own interest.”

“And as regards Urania?”

“I advise her not to do it.”

“Have you done so already?”

“Once in a way.”

“So you are my enemy?” he exclaimed, angrily.

“No,” she said, gently, wishing to conciliate him. “I am a friend.”

“A friend? To what length?”

“To the length to which I wish to go.”

“Not the length to which I wish?”

“Oh, no, never!”

“But perhaps we both wish to go to the same length?”

He had stood up, with his blood on fire. She remained seated calmly, almost languidly, with her head thrown back. She did not reply. He fell on his knees, seized her hand and was kissing it before she could prevent him:

“Oh, angel, angel. Oh, demon!” he muttered, between his kisses.

She now withdrew her hand, pushed him away from her gently and said:

“How quick an Italian is with his kisses!”

She laughed at him. He rose from his knees:

“Teach me what Dutchwomen are like, though they are slower than we.”

She pointed to his chair, with an imperious gesture:

“Sit down,” she said. “I am not a typical Dutchwoman. If I were, I should not have come to Rome. I pride myself on being a cosmopolitan. But we were not discussing that, we were speaking of Urania. Are you thinking seriously of marrying her?”

“What can I do, if you thwart me? Why not be on my side, like a dear friend?”

She hesitated. Neither of these two, Urania or he, was ripe for her ideas. She despised them both. Very well, let them get married: he in order to be rich; she to become a princess and duchess.

“Listen to me,” she said, bending towards him. “You want to marry her for the sake of her millions. But your marriage will be unhappy from the beginning. She is a frivolous little thing; she will want to cut a dash ... and you belong to the Blacks.”

“We can live at Nice: then she can do as she pleases. We will come to Rome now and again, go to San Stefano now and again. And, as for unhappiness,” he continued, pulling a tragic face, “what do I care? I am not happy as it is. I shall try to make Urania happy. But my heart ... will be elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“With the feminist movement.”

She laughed:

“Well, shall I be nice to you?”

“Yes.”

“And promise to help you?”

What did she care, when all was said?

“Oh, angel, demon!” he cried. He nibbled at a chocolate. “And what does Mr. van der Staal think of it?” he asked, mischievously.

She raised her eyebrows:

“He doesn’t think about it. He thinks only of his art.”

“And of you.”

She looked at him and bowed her head in queenly assent:

“And of me.”

“You often dine with him.”

“Yes.”

“Come and dine with me one day.”

“I shall be delighted.”

“To-morrow evening? And where?”

“Wherever you like.”

“In the Grand-HÔtel?”

“Ask Urania to come too.”

“Why not you and I alone?”

“I think it better that you should invite your future wife. I will chaperon her.”

“You are right. You are quite right. And will you ask Mr. van der Staal also to give me the pleasure of his company?”

“I will.”

“Until to-morrow then, at half-past eight?”

“Until half-past eight to-morrow.”

He rose to take his leave:

“Propriety demands that I should go,” he said. “Really I should prefer to stay.”

“Well, then stay ... or stay another time, if you have to go now.”

“You are so cold.”

“And you don’t think enough of Urania.”

“I think of the feminist movement.”

He sat down.

“I’m afraid you must go,” she said, laughing with her eyes. “I have to dress ... to go and dine with Mr. van der Staal.”

He kissed her hand:

“You are an angel and a demon. You know everything. You can do anything. You are the most interesting woman I ever met.”

“Because I correct proofs.”

“Because you are what you are.”

And, very seriously, still holding her hand he said, almost threateningly:

“I shall never be able to forget you.”

And he went away. As soon as she was alone, she opened all her windows. She realized, it was true, that she was something of a coquette, but that lay in her nature: she was like that of herself, to some men. Certainly not to all. Never to Duco. Never to men whom she respected. Whereas she despised that little prince, with his blazing eyes and his habit of kissing people.... But he served to amuse her....

And she dressed and went out and reached the restaurant long after the appointed hour, found Duco waiting for her at their little table, with his head in his hands, and at once told him that the prince had detained her.