hen Paul rang the bell at the Dalmatian Embassy the next afternoon it was with a firm determination to learn more of the Countess's guest. If she would not tell him about herself, then he would find out from the wife of the Ambassador.

The Countess had always warmly welcomed Paul, when Count Oreshefski presided over the legation house in London, and Paul had responded to her motherly interest by opening his heart to a greater extent even than to his own mother, the proud Lady Henrietta. For the Countess had known and loved his Queen—a fact which formed an unalterable bond of sympathy between them.

Paul wandered about the drawing-room, when the footman had departed with his card, too restless—too eager—to be seated. In one of his turns about the room his eyes alighted on an object which instantly arrested his idle steps. It was a woman's photograph, lying on a small table, as though placed there by a careless hand and then forgotten. A tiny object to work such an effect, but it was enough to bring Paul to a round halt.

There, looking up at him from the card, was the face of the woman he had come to see—Mademoiselle Vseslavitch. There was a wistful, touching expression to the pictured face, but it was a remarkably fine likeness, and Paul glowed with secret joy as he hid it away in his breast-pocket, murmuring inaudibly to be forgiven for the theft, but—alas for the cause of honesty—gleefully unrepentant.

He scarcely had time to move from the table, as his ear caught the rustle of approaching silk, when the fair original of the photograph entered, alone, and greeted him cordially.

"I am so sorry!" she said, as she held out her hand toward Paul. "The Countess has been suddenly called to Etampes, where her sister is ill. I am left to do the honours at the tea-table. You won't mind, I hope?"

Paul expressed himself as sorry to learn of the illness of the Countess's sister; he did not know the lady. And he spoke the usual regrets over missing the charming society of the Ambassador's wife. But there was a light in his eye which denied any great grief. As a matter of fact, he was overjoyed that he would have the Countess's guest to himself.

"Come into the library," said Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, "and we will have the tea things brought in there. It's not too early for you, is it?"

Paul laughed at the idea of its ever being too early for an Englishman's tea. Under pressure of work, when Parliament was sitting, he drank innumerable cups. And even when he was spending his time at Verdayne Place he always had tea ready to drink between sets of tennis.

The Verdayne tea was famous all over the countryside. It was a Russian variety. Paul always steadfastly refused to divulge to anyone—ever the Vicar's wife—the place where he bought it, and he always had it prepared in a Russian samovar.

Once in the library, a great sombre room to which an open coal fire lent a cheerful touch, Paul's companion seated herself at a low tea-table and busied herself with the samovar.

"This is Russian tea," she said, smiling. "You may not care for it."

"On the contrary," Paul replied, sipping the steaming amber fluid—"I always use this same kind at home. One can't fail to detect the peculiar aromatic flavour which tea retains when it has travelled overland, but which most of the leaves sold in England lose in coming by sea."

"This is my own—which I always carry with me," Mademoiselle Vseslavitch remarked. "We have used no other in our family for many years."

"And where, Mademoiselle, if I may ask, does this highly discriminating family reside? Perhaps, in the course of my wanderings there might come a time when it would be a most important matter for me to obtain a cup of this truly remarkable brew."

Mademoiselle Vseslavitch laughed mischievously at Paul. She had motioned him to a chair where the firelight reached his face, whereas her own was more in shadow. He did not see the amusement in her eyes when she replied:

"Oh! You can find tea like that in many houses east of the Balkans. It is really not wonderful at all."

Paul saw that the lady did not care to tell him much of herself, and he did not venture to press her further just then. But now that the Countess was not there to question, he felt that he must make some effort later.

As they sat there the lady talked to him of things in Paris, of the Luxembourg, the Louvre, NÔtre Dame, the boulevards, and then she wickedly mentioned the Bois de Boulogne. But Paul did not prove very responsive on that subject. The remembrance of the spectacle he had presented the afternoon before did not please him.

He knew right well that she was teasing him, though she did not mention the incident. He almost wished she would—it might give him an opportunity to say to her the words that he longed to say.

As for Lucerne—or Langres—Mademoiselle nimbly avoided those spots—it was as if they had no place on her map of Europe. And try as he could, Paul could not bring himself to mention them.

At last the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him. Suppose he should boldly recall to Mademoiselle the rencontre in the rustic tea-house at Lucerne? Clearly, he might commit an unfortunate faux pas by such a move. No, he dared not speak to her of an incident so unconventional. He must ignore the fact that he had ever seen her before, unless she herself mentioned it. It was clear that she would demand careful wooing. This was a time when he must keep himself well in hand.

And just as Paul had reached this conclusion something happened—it was but a little thing—that upset all his well-laid plans.

As the lady held out more tea for Paul and he drew near to take it, he caught once more, as at Lucerne, the faintest breath of that strange perfume so dear to his memory. His hand shook with such sudden agitation that he set the cup upon the table, lest it fall.

The lady looked up quickly at Paul, and as he stood there over her their eyes met fairly. All skillful fencing was over. The time had come when the truth must be told.

"Let us drop the mask, Mademoiselle," he said with a slight choke in his voice. Without warning the thrill of youth had fired his blood and he cast prudence to the four winds. What mattered conventionality? What mattered anything? He only knew that he cared more for her than for all else in the whole world, and he took her hand in his with a tumultuous heart.

"I love you, dear," he said simply. "You yourself are the beautiful lady I have sought constantly since that time I first saw you, as I looked up into the starry skies. At first I thought your eyes also were stars."

She gazed up at him for a moment, her hand motionless in his, while neither stirred.

"My heart misgives me!" she said then. "Words are so easily said—they are often spoken idly—pour passer le temps—and soon forgotten. Ah! Sir Paul! forgive me, I beg of you—if I was mad once. I promise myself it shall never happen again. It was unfortunate—but there are things one cannot explain."

"But I love you," Paul repeated.

"Are you sure it is love?" she asked him.

Ah! how well Paul knew now, and he bent toward the face of his dreams.

"No! no! not that!" she said, and rose from her place. "You don't know what you do. Please go! go! quickly, for I must be alone."

And then as Paul hesitated for an instant, she fled through the heavy draperies into the room beyond, leaving but a breath of the faint, sweet perfume to hallow the air.

With heart bowed down Paul passed out through the great doorway, the words from an old play ringing through his brain:

"She was lovable, and he loved her; but he was not lovable, and she loved him not."