Then she turned to Dominey.
“Will you be so kind as to see me home?” she asked. “Afterwards, my car can take you on wherever you choose to go.”
“I shall be very happy,” Dominey assented.
He, too, made his farewells. A servant in the hall handed him his hat and coat, and he took his place in the car by Stephanie’s side. She touched the electric switch as they glided off. The car was in darkness.
“I think,” she murmured, “that I could not have borne another moment of this juggling with words. Leopold—we are alone!”
He caught the flash of her jewels, the soft brilliance of her eyes as she leaned towards him. His voice sounded, even to himself, harsh and strident.
“You mistake, Princess. My name is not Leopold. I am Everard Dominey.”
“Oh, I know that you are very obstinate,” she said softly, “very obstinate and very devoted to your marvellous country, but you have a soul, Leopold; you know that there are human duties as great as any your country ever imposed upon you. You know what I look for from you, what I must find from you or go down into hell, ashamed and miserable.”
He felt his throat suddenly dry.
“Listen,” he muttered, “until the hour strikes, I must remain to you as to the world, alone or in a crowd—Everard Dominey. There is one way and one way only of carrying through my appointed task.”
She gave a little hysterical sob.
“Wait,” she begged. “I will answer you in a moment. Give me your hand.”
He opened the fingers which he had kept clenched together, and he felt the hot grip of her hand, holding his passionately, drawing it toward her until the fingers of her other hand, too, fell upon it. So she sat for several moments.
“Leopold,” she continued presently, “I understand. You are afraid that I shall betray our love. You have reason. I am full of impulses and passion, as you know, but I have restraint. What we are to one another when we are alone, no soul in this world need know. I will be careful. I swear it. I will never even look at you as though my heart ached for your notice, when we are in the presence of other people. You shall come and see me as seldom as you wish. I will receive you only as often as you say. But don’t treat me like this. Tell me you have come back. Throw off this hideous mask, if it be only for a moment.”
He sat quite still, although her hands were tearing at his, her lips and eyes beseeching him.
“Whatever may come afterwards,” he pronounced inexorably, “until the time arrives I am Everard Dominey. I cannot take advantage of your feelings for Leopold Von Ragastein. He is not here. He is in Africa. Perhaps some day he will come back to you and be all that you wish.”
She flung his hands away. He felt her eyes burning into his, this time with something more like furious curiosity.
“Let me look at you,” she cried. “Let me be sure. Is this just some ghastly change, or are you an imposter? My heart is growing chilled. Are you the man I have waited for all these years? Are you the man to whom I have given my lips, for whose sake I offered up my reputation as a sacrifice, the man who slew my husband and left me?”
“I was exiled,” he reminded her, his own voice shaking with emotion. “You know that. So far as other things are concerned, I am exiled now. I am working out my expiation.”
She leaned back in her seat with an air of exhaustion. Her eyes closed. Then the car drove in through some iron gates and stopped in front of her door, which was immediately opened. A footman hurried out. She turned to Dominey.
“You will not enter,” she pleaded, “for a short time?”
“If you will permit me to pay you a visit, it will give me great pleasure,” he answered formally. “I will call, if I may, on my return from Norfolk.”
She gave him her hand with a sad smile.
“Let my people take you wherever you want to go,” she invited, “and remember,” she added, dropping her voice, “I do not admit defeat. This is not the last word between us.”
She disappeared in some state, escorted through the great front door of one of London’s few palaces by an attractive major-domo and footman in the livery of her House. Dominey drove back to the Carlton, where in the lounge he found the band playing, crowds still sitting around, amongst whom Seaman was conspicuous, in his neat dinner clothes and with his cherubic air of inviting attention from prospective new acquaintances. He greeted Dominey enthusiastically.
“Come,” he exclaimed, “I am weary of solitude! I have seen scarcely a face that I recognise. My tongue is parched with inaction. I like to talk, and there has been no one to talk to. I might as well have opened up my little house in Forest Hill.”
“I’ll talk to you if you like,” Dominey promised a little grimly, glancing at the clock and hastily ordering a whisky and soda. “I will begin by telling you this,” he added, lowering his tone. “I have discovered the greatest danger I shall have to face during my enterprise.”
“What is that?”
“A woman—the Princess Eiderstrom.”
Seaman lit one of his inevitable cigars and threw one of his short, fat legs over the other. He gazed for a moment with an air of satisfaction at his small foot, neatly encased in court shoes.
“You surprise me,” he confessed. “I have considered the matter. I cannot see any great difficulty.”
“Then you must be closing your eyes to it willfully,” Dominey retorted, “or else you are wholly ignorant of the Princess’s temperament and disposition.”
“I believe I appreciate both,” Seaman replied, “but I still do not see any peculiar difficulty in the situation. As an English nobleman you have a perfect right to enjoy the friendship of the Princess Eiderstrom.”
“And I thought you were a man of sentiment!” Dominey scoffed. “I thought you understood a little of human nature. Stephanie Eiderstrom is Hungarian born and bred. Even race has never taught her self-restraint. You don’t seriously suppose that after all these years, after all she has suffered—and she has suffered—she is going to be content with an emasculated form of friendship? I talk to you without reserve, Seaman. She has made it very plain to-night that she is going to be content with nothing of the sort.”
“What takes place between you in private,” Seaman began—
“Rubbish!” his companion interrupted. “The Princess is an impulsive, a passionate, a distinctly primitive woman, with a good deal of the wild animal in her still. Plots or political necessities are not likely to count a snap of the fingers with her.”
“But surely,” Seaman protested, “she must understand that your country has claimed you for a great work?”
Dominey shook his head.
“She is not a German,” he pointed out. “On the contrary, like a great many other Hungarians, I think she rather dislikes Germany and Germans. Her only concern is the personal question between us. She considers that every moment of the rest of my life should be devoted to her.”
“Perhaps
