“There is your ice, Ouida,” said Paul, striving to control himself. “Would that my heart were like it, so that you might devour it. I do not like that man.” “Why, Paul?” “He comes too often to you. Nay, do not deny it. He loves you, but you do not love him,” he fiercely said. “I--I--” hesitated Ouida, for a moment losing her self-possession, under the influence of Paul’s questioning. “But you do not love him,” he repeated again, as he seized her arm, almost roughly. “If I thought you did--well, you know the blood of the Cossack is in me, and--” “You will kill him?” she passionately uttered, and she clung to Paul as though holding him from the accomplishment of such a purpose. “Now, by my life,” he said, looking searchingly at her, “this sudden interest almost makes me think you do care for him.” Again her complete mastery over his simple nature exhibited itself. “Paul,” she said, in that alluring tone which always brought him to his knees, “you are beside yourself. You have naught to fear of me with him. He has just promised me to marry us tomorrow night.” “So you have fixed the time at last,” said Paul, exultingly. “This is noble, oh, so good of you. This joyous news compensates me for a world of agony and doubt. Would to God tomorrow night were here,” said he, completely satisfied. “Come, let us to the ball room. I heard your editorial friend, Doane, swearing a moment ago that you had promised to waltz with him, but that you had secreted yourself to escape his clutches.” “True, I had almost overlooked that. I wish I could educate Doane once in a while to say a kindly thing, but I fear the task is a hopeless one.” She was much relieved that the trying scene had ended, and with no disastrous results. CHAPTER XVI. PAUL COMPLETES A STORY. Despite the difference in their dispositions, something usually brought Doane, Wayland and Connors together. So about midnight, at the grand ball, this trio found themselves together in one of the apartments of the great mansion. Connors, the politician, started to talk. “If Sarah Bernhardt were here,” he said, “she’d take a bath in the wine we have wasted tonight.” “The frail Sarah has much faith in this method of preserving health, as did old Ponce de Leon, in the long-sought-for fountain of immortal youth.” “By the way,” said Doane, “did you hear the story they tell on the actress, while on her late Western tour?” “No,” they exclaimed, “let us have it.” “Well,” said Doane, in great relish, for he did love to tell a story, “when she played at Seattle, she expressed a desire to have a vivid, real live hunt. An old trapper near by had some tame bears, and the newspaper boys put up a job on the fair French woman. She dressed herself up in a male attire, went out into the woods, a perfect nimrod. She was hauled over logs and creeks, and finally, in a moment of ecstacy, she was permitted to kill a bear. She was the happiest woman, for a day, upon whom the sun ever shone.”