“It has upset me ... that unfortunate boy,” said Sonia; and her eyes were swimming with tears. “Do you pity the young rogue?” said the Duke. “Yes; it’s dreadful. His eyes were so terrified, and so boyish. And, to be caught like that ... stealing ... in the act. Oh, it’s hateful!” “Come, come, how sensitive you are!” said the Duke, in a soothing, almost caressing tone. His eyes, resting on her charming, troubled face, were glowing with a warm admiration. “Yes; it’s silly,” said Sonia; “but you noticed his eyes—the hunted look in them? You pitied him, didn’t you? For you are kind at bottom.” “Why at bottom?” said the Duke. “Oh, I said at bottom because you look sarcastic, and at first sight you’re so cold. But often that’s only the mask of those who have suffered the most.... They are the most indulgent,” said Sonia slowly, hesitating, picking her words. “Yes, I suppose they are,” said the Duke thoughtfully. “It’s because when one has suffered one understands.... Yes: one understands,” said Sonia. There was a pause. The Duke’s eyes still rested on her face. The admiration in them was mingled with compassion. “You’re very unhappy here, aren’t you?” he said gently. “Me? Why?” said Sonia quickly. “Your smile is so sad, and your eyes so timid,” said the Duke slowly. “You’re just like a little child one longs to protect. Are you quite alone in the world?” His eyes and tones were full of pity; and a faint flush mantled Sonia’s cheeks. “Yes, I’m alone,” she said. “But have you no relations—no friends?” said the Duke. “No,” said Sonia. “I don’t mean here in France, but in your own country.... Surely you have some in Russia?” “No, not a soul. You see, my father was a Revolutionist. He died in Siberia when I was a baby. And my mother, she died too—in Paris. She had fled from Russia. I was two years old when she died.” “It must be hard to be alone like that,” said the Duke. “No,” said Sonia, with a faint smile, “I don’t mind having no relations. I grew used to that so young ... so very young. But what is hard—but you’ll laugh at me—” “Heaven forbid!” said the Duke gravely. “Well, what is hard is, never to get a letter ... an envelope that one opens ... from some one who thinks about one—” She paused, and then added gravely: “But I tell myself that it’s nonsense. I have a certain amount of philosophy.” She smiled at him—an adorable child’s smile. The Duke smiled too. “A certain amount of philosophy,” he said softly. “You look like a philosopher!” As they stood looking at one another with serious eyes, almost with eyes that probed one another’s souls, the drawing-room door flung open, and Germaine’s harsh voice broke on their ears. “You’re getting quite impossible, Sonia!” she cried. “It’s absolutely useless telling you anything. I told you particularly to pack my leather writing-case in my bag with your own hand. I happen to open a drawer, and what do I see? My leather writing-case.” “I’m sorry,” said Sonia. “I was going—”