Seeing that her companion remained silent in uncertainty, she murmured an introduction,-- 'Do you know my cousin Julian? Prince Ardalion Miloradovitch.' The Russian bowed with a bad grace, seeing that he must yield his place to Julian. When he had gone, unwillingly tactful and full of resentment, she twitted her cousin,-- 'Implacable as always, when you want your own way! I notice you have neither outgrown your tyrannical selfishness nor left it behind in England.' 'I have never seen that man before; who is he?' 'A Russian. Not unattractive. I am engaged to him,' she replied negligently. 'You are going to marry him?' She shrugged. 'Perhaps, ultimately. More probably not.' 'And what will he do if you throw him over?' Julian asked with a certain curiosity. 'Oh, he has a fine _je-m'en-fichisme_; he'll shrug his shoulders, kiss the tips of my fingers, and die gambling,' she answered. When Eve said that, Julian thought that he saw the whole of Miloradovitch, whom he did not know, quite clearly; she had lit him up. They talked then of a great many things, extraneous to themselves, but all the while they observed one another narrowly. She found nothing actually new in him, only an immense development along the old, careless, impersonal lines. In appearance he was as untidy as ever; large, slack-limbed, rough-headed. He, however, found much that was new in her; new, that is, to his more experienced observation, but which, hitherto, in its latent form had slept undiscovered by his boyish eyes. His roaming glance took in the deliberate poise and provocative aloofness of her self-possession, the warm roundness of her throat and arms, the little _mouche_ at the corner of her mouth, her little graceful hands, and white skin that here and there, in the shadows, gleamed faintly gold, as though a veneer of amber had been brushed over the white; the pervading sensuousness that glowed from her like the actual warmth of a slumbering fire. He found himself banishing the thought of Miloradovitch.... 'Have you changed?' he said abruptly. 'Look at me.' She raised her eyes, with the assurance of one well-accustomed to personal remarks; a slow smile crept over her lips. 'Well, your verdict?' 'You are older, and your hair is brushed back.' 'Is that all?' 'Do you expect me to say that you are pretty?' 'Oh, no,' she said, snapping her fingers, 'I never expect compliments from you, Julian. On the other hand, let me pay you one. Your arrival, this evening, has been a triumph. Most artistic. Let me congratulate you. You know of old that I dislike being taken by surprise.' 'That's why I do it.' 'I know,' she said, with sudden humility, the marvellous organ of her voice sinking surprisingly into the rich luxuriance of its most sombre contralto.