Late that same evening Tolskoi made his appearance at the Palace, in the outer salon, where he found the usual gathering of officials and dames d'honneur with their invited guests. His reception was a flattering one, and his return to the beau-mondaine circles hailed with acclamation.

The heavy curtains to the inner salon were closely drawn, indicative of the Tsar and Tsarina's desire to remain unmolested for the present. The evening was very warm, and most of the long windows stood open, the wind gently swaying the light draperies.

Beneath the casements the Neva crept by in slow rippling motion; the moonlight falling athwart its grey opaqueness, woke here and there sudden gleams of radiance. It struck also across the blank stone wall of the Trubetskoi bastion, accentuating its grim outlines, and, shooting far upwards, tipped the lance-like spire of Peter's Fortress with golden fire.

The Countess Vera was the first to welcome Tolskoi, smiling up at him, as she did so, and waving her great fan of scented lace to and fro languidly.

"Oh, are you returned, mon cher? What a pleasure! And what a surprise to some one! Oh, yes, she is here, and quite ravishingly beautiful. For the moment she is with her Imperial Majesty. How hot it is, mon cher, and what a cruelty that the Court regards no one's convenience, save its own! One so longs to be flying westward."

"Is it so unsupportable?" replied Ivor in his clear youthful voice, looking very handsome and young as he bent down towards the miniature lady. "Upon my word, when I am near the Countess Vera, I lose all sensation but one of supreme well-being."

"Ah, flatterer!" cried the little Countess, tapping him lightly on the arm with her fan. "See, here she comes."

At that moment the velvet curtains at the far end of the grand salon parted for a moment, to allow the egress of a tall slight figure, that moved down the room with an almost regal grace, and whose white draperies of soft lustreless silk swept after her in rhythmic curves.

It was Olga, and Ivor, as he beheld her after two months of separation, felt his heart leap up in glad response to her beauty.

Indeed, never had she looked more beautiful. The grand curves of her perfect figure, well defined by the low-cut bodice and falling laces of her dress, her head, carried with all its imperial haughty grace, crowned by the masses of her golden hair, her eyes so deep and wonderful beneath the dark level brows, the "pomegranate flower" of her mouth showing vividly against the colourless fairness of her complexion. She wore a sapphire and diamond ornament upon her neck, and the rare stones flashed and scintillated beneath her quick-coming breath.

Ivor stepped forward eagerly, his face flushed with the renewed ecstasy of her presence, and bending low before her, murmured some inaudible greeting. The Countess Vera watched them, a smile on her brilliant little face.

Olga drew back, with an almost imperceptible movement, and with a sudden dramatic gesture repelled, rather than welcomed, the young man. She had not seen him since that day when at his thinly veiled allusions, and suggestive words, all trust and belief in the truth and honesty of human nature died within her. In that brief hour's drive it seemed to her she had grown years older, and beyond that day she never looked.

With the melting of the snows of winter she had put from her whatever of softness or leniency belonged to her girlhood; with her womanhood she adopted the creed of her world, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

"Ah, Ivor," she exclaimed, controlling instantly both voice and manner, and holding out her hand in greeting, "so you have come back. What an eternity you have been away! Petersburg has been only half itself without you."

She smiled as she spoke, and the charm of her smile counterbalanced the indifference of her tones.

"Petersburg cannot have been so desolate without me, as I have been without Petersburg," answered Tolskoi, gaily. "Is one permitted, mademoiselle, to express one's admiration and pleasure in beholding you so radiant and so—happy?"

"One is permitted always to speak one's mind in this age of enlightenment," she replied, carelessly, though the meaning of Ivor's question had not escaped her.

"And what news do you bring with you?" she continued, a little hurriedly. "One is bored to extinction here, kept so late in town, and with such a dearth of novelty that counting flies upon the wall becomes an exciting pastime."

She had walked on as she spoke, separating herself from the Countess Vera by a slight farewell gesture; Ivor kept pace at her side. When they drew near one of the deep embrasured windows she stopped, and motioned Ivor to the low cushioned seat beneath. But he refused to avail himself of her invitation, preferring to stand at her side and look down upon her. She sank languidly back upon the velvet cushions.

In the music gallery, at one end of the great salon, the Household band were playing an arrangement of some of the wild, sad, national airs. The strains floated to them across the rippling current of light laughter and gay voices, like the under-chord of melancholy that runs always side by side with the happier melodies of life's theme.

Ivor was the first to speak, and, as he did so, Olga turned her head somewhat away from him.

"You ask me for news, mademoiselle; that is, indeed, somewhat singular. How can I bring you news from my wild province which should prove of interest to you? Let me rather ask that question. What do you hear from Count Mellikoff, mademoiselle, and how prospers his mission?"

She did not reply at once, and Tolskoi, watching her averted face, saw the jewels on her bosom rise with a sudden, quick, indrawn breath.

When she spoke it was with an almost exaggerated assumption of carelessness.

"I hear nothing of, or from Count Mellikoff." Then, after a moment's pause, "Are you more fortunate?"

"If you like to call it so. My latest intelligence is to the effect, that having been successful beyond his expectations, he looks forward to an immediate return, and to the reward he feels he has fairly earned."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, quickly, "you surprise me. And the woman—is she found?"

"According to Count Mellikoff's despatches he does not doubt his soon having her in his power," answered Ivor, slowly. "But as we know, mademoiselle, there is considerable truth in the old saying about the cup and the lip. Even Count Mellikoff may find himself mistaken."

"And you?" she asked, still with averted head, and in her assumed careless voice. "May not you be mistaken? It would seem that this—this woman—whom you say you saw, must after all, have been but a delusion of your too ready imagination, since Count Mellikoff is so certain of his success."

"No, I am not mistaken, mademoiselle," answered Ivor, gravely. "When Count Mellikoff returns victorious, it will be my turn to win distinction; and he who wins last wins best, you know. When that time comes, Olga, I shall claim my reward, and you will give it to me."

"Your reward?" she questioned, turning her face towards him at last, and looking up straight into his eyes.

"Yes, my reward," he replied, "my reward, which will indeed have been hardly won."

He stooped and lifted her hand. "This hand, Olga, this little slender hand; that is what I shall claim, and that is what you will give to me."

She made him no answer, save to let her fingers lie passively in his. Presently he bent and kissed them, then quietly putting her hand down, he turned and walked from her.

When near the great doors he looked back. She was sitting as he had left her, passive and unmoved, with the shadows cast by the lightly swaying curtains half shielding her face, and the grey darkness of the starless sky for a background.

Her hand lay as he had put it down, motionless upon her lap.