I admit that I loved her madly, passionately. Overwhelmed by the contemplation of her beauty, enchanted by the magic of her voice, which made the sweetest music out of the merest phrases, I thought of nought but her, and was only happy when at her side. Yet when I remembered the difference in our social position, and her marriage with the Prince, I was almost beside myself with despair; I knew that mine was an adoration that could only end in unhappiness. Involuntarily my hand touched my pocket and struck something hard. I drew it away in horror. What terrible irony of fate! The woman I loved dearer than life was doomed to die by my hand! She had been gazing dreamily out of the window, when suddenly with a mischievous smile she exclaimed— “You are very silent, m’sieur.” I scarcely know what prompted me, but, jumping up quickly, and grasping her tiny, bejewelled hand, I raised it to my lips and in English poured forth a declaration of my love. She trembled. Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, but she did not attempt to arrest the flood of passionate words that escaped me. Ere I had concluded, my heart was filled with joy, for I saw my passion was reciprocated. Vainly striving to overcome her emotion, she exclaimed excitedly— “I—I was unprepared—I did not think you loved me, Vladimir. Do you doubt I care for you? Have you not seen it? _Mon Dieu!_ my married life has been only a grim and dismal tragedy. I loved no man until I met you!” “Do you really think sometimes of me, Princess?” I asked, scarcely believing the truth. “To you I am Irene,” she said in pretty broken English. “All my life has been wasted hitherto. You have asked me; I have give you answer. I love only you. Some day you will know me better. Now, you know me only for the mad passion I bear for you. But yourself shall make satisfy of my past, my truth, my honour, and—and I shall get—what you call—divorce from the Prince, and we two will marry—eh? Of you I ask not one single question. You are my lover, the only man for whom I have affection, and—and in return I am your serf.” She buried her flushed face upon my shoulder and sobbed. Taking her in my arms, I swore to her everlasting constancy. All my heart was in the declaration. In the glamour of that hour we were reckless and egotistical as most lovers, heedless of the shadow that was growing up behind the sunshine of our happy vows of undying affection. When she grew calm, she looked up searchingly into my eyes and said: “You cannot understand me. You do not know the bitterness of my life.” “No, Irene. Tell me about yourself,” I said. Hesitatingly she seated herself in a wicker chair, and motioned me to a seat at her side. “No, no,” I said, laughing. “At your feet, Princess; always at your feet,” and, casting myself upon a low footstool, I took her hand in mine.