While Pauline was absent on her mission to St. Petersburg Wilfrid was spending a pleasant time with the Princess, who, avowing herself to be quite well again, refused in defiance of the orders left by Dr. Beauvais, to remain any longer confined to her chamber, but went forth, under Wilfrid’s escort, for a ramble around Pauline’s insular demesne. It was a still summer day, and the island with its pine-groves and green lawns lay like a lovely garden upon the bosom of the Neva, whose waters were tinted with the delicate sapphire of the sky. Wilfrid was certainly a fortunate fellow. Resident at the fairest season of the year in a picturesque old castle upon an island lovely by day, more lovely perhaps by night, with a beautiful young Princess for his companion—what more could he desire? The pair had reached in their rambling a blue tarn, so smooth and beautiful as to have received from Pauline the pretty name of the Fairies’ Mirror. By the water’s edge was a rustic seat, and here the two sat down. “Lord Courtenay,” said the Princess, turning her deep serious eyes upon him, “let me hear again the story you told this morning. I am naturally curious to learn all I can about myself.” Compliant with her wish Wilfrid repeated his narrative, finding a pleasure in the telling of it, partly because he loved to dwell upon everything connected with Marie, partly because it was pleasant to have so fair and interested a listener. “You seem to have remembered my words very well,” she murmured, noting that he had repeated her utterances with little or no variation. “I trust you do not impute that to me as a fault?” “And have you told me all? Have you kept nothing back?” Just a trace of embarrassment appeared upon Wilfrid’s face, but, faint as it was, it did not escape her quick glance. “I can see it! No, do not equivocate. You are hiding something from me.” Wilfrid’s manner confirmed the Princess in her opinion. What was he to do? Tell her that she was suspected of being the Czar’s favourite? No, much as he hated deceit he would rather tell a downright lie than let a thought such as that rankle in her mind! “Why do you hesitate to tell me all?” she asked. “In telling all, I must tell of my own folly.” “Folly in which we were both participants? Yes? Then I must know it. It is not fair to hide my past doings from me. What was this folly?” “Well, since you will have it. In asking me to paint _The Death of Paul_, you made offer of fifty thousand roubles, which I declined in favour of a sweeter guerdon.” “And that was——?” “Perhaps you will show as great anger now as you did when you first heard the proposal.” “Tell me, and you can judge.” “I declined to paint the picture except on promise of—a kiss from you.” “And what was my answer?” “You gave the promise.”