The pointed heels of the _camériste_ beat a gay little tattoo on the inlaid floor of the corridor as she retreated, and again there was silence. Laurence settled down again in the fur, her head cushioned on the stuffed bear’s head, her brain slowly awakening to the fact that she must at any cost make good her escape before her sister-in-law arrived, for assuredly the Duchess would force her to remain at her post until Basil came back. Time was not lacking. The distance was great between Tverna and Palitzinovna, and even with fast horses it would take hours to accomplish the trip, especially in view of the severity of the weather; but still, had she not been so cramped and sore from her recent and unaccustomed exertions, she would have begun instantly to make preparations, although as yet she had not the faintest idea how, unaided, she could get away. This was absolutely the end of Russia for her! Nothing that Tatiana or even Basil could do or say would alter that resolve. He could stay there if he wished, or follow her if he chose. She would leave Piotr in his aunt’s care, and Basil was welcome to keep his son, should he prefer remaining in his own land. _She did not care._ No, the worst of it all was that she really did not care a jot for either of them, and presently her fast-awakening imagination began to call forth pictures of a life of unbounded pleasure and luxury for herself in Paris and the Rivièra. Long days of _dolce far niente_, long nights of amusement, suffused with incessant adulation, compliment, praise and appreciation of her charms, her wealth, her beauty! The image of Neville Moray gradually detached itself from this enticing background, and with a little gasp of surprise she saw before her new possibilities of delightful companionship, such as her present existence did not easily afford. Paris, Monte Carlo, Nice, Cannes, Cap Martin, yachting trips to Algiers or Alexandria, a month or so at Trouville or Deauville, the races, the _petits chevaux_, a box at the opera, probably sojourns in Rome during the season, and certainly brilliant appearances in May-decked London, or on the Solent later on, when Royal and Imperial visitors displayed their pennants there. All this made up a kaleidoscopical jumble which whirled in her brain until she almost forgot what she considered her pressing and imminent personal danger. Another tap at the door, however, roused her to reality, and, sitting bolt upright, she listened. “Excellency!” Garrassime was whispering through the keyhole. “Excellency, I implore Your Highness to let me in!” “Old beast!” muttered Laurence, furiously, and gave no answer.