“Do _you_ know him?” she asked. “Serge and I are friends of several years’ standing,” replied Wilfrid, very much doubting, however, whether the term “friends” was any longer applicable to the relationship between himself and Ouvaroff. Pauline’s face assumed a somewhat whimsical expression. “Poor Ouvaroff!” “Why that sigh?” smiled Wilfrid. “Lovers may come, and lovers may go, but Ouvaroff remains faithful for ever.” This to Wilfrid was a most surprising piece of news. “When last we met the Prince spoke of a nameless lady who for some years past had been saying him nay. Can it be that——” “He will not take my ‘No.’” Her words showed Wilfrid that he had been holding a wrong opinion. Pauline, and not the nameless duchess, was Ouvaroff’s inamorata. So far, good! There was no rivalry in love between them. But why, then, was the Prince daily practising swordsmanship? Was the object of his resentment some other Englishman, and not Wilfrid at all? And what had he meant by saying he had recently discovered that it was death to court the lady of his choice, language identical with that used by Baranoff when speaking of the “Princess”? Were there, then, at St. Petersburg two ladies whom it was death to court? Now, though it might very well be that peril would befall the unauthorised suitor who should venture to make love to the grand-daughter of Ivan VI., yet why an _aide-de-camp_ of the Czarovitch should not pay his addresses to an ambassador’s daughter without having the fear of death before his eyes was a question that set Wilfrid thinking. It may seem strange that Wilfrid, being now _tête-à-tête_ with one who knew Ouvaroff intimately, did not ask whether she was acquainted with the lady to whom the Prince had acted as escort, but the truth was, Pauline had so fascinating and seductive a manner that Wilfrid hesitated to touch upon this theme lest she should draw from him an account of the nocturnal incident at the inn of the Silver Birch, a disclosure which would have been a breaking of his word to the Princess. Upon that matter, therefore, he determined to keep a silent tongue. “Another cup of tea, Lord Courtenay?” said Pauline, breaking in upon his reverie. “No? You really have finished? Well then——” Taking the porcelain cup used by Wilfrid, she held it for a moment above the tiled hearth, and then let it fall. It was shivered to pieces. Wilfrid wondered in what light he was to take this action. “It means,” said Pauline, responsive to his thoughts, “that no one else shall ever drink from that cup. ’Tis a Muscovite way of honouring a guest. You see, I _am_ half a Russian, after all. With our grand boyars it is often the practice after a feast to cast all the plate out at the windows upon the heads of the expectant crowd below, it being thought undignified to make use of the same dishes a second time. Paul has done his best by ukase to abolish this custom, chiefly with a view to the saving of his own plate.”