The pleading voice rose from a mere discreet murmur to a louder, yet always subdued, entreaty, and at last, remembering that she had better find out if her message had been sent; Laurence rose to her feet, and, noiselessly crossing to the door, pulled it brutally open without the least warning. Garrassime, the imperturbable, had been, so to speak, shaken out of his usual calm by Laurence’s variegated doings that day, and no wonder, so that when brusquely confronted by the white-faced, wild-eyed, _décoiffée_ woman, who had hitherto only appeared to him perched upon her faultless elegance, he fell back with some abruptness. “Ah, the poor lamb!” he thought in his Russian way; “if she only would be good and let us love and respect her!” Fortunately for him, she was no mind-reader, and the pity in his eyes escaped her somewhat muddled powers of observation, for when she spoke it was with a hint of civility she had never deigned to grant him. “Did you manage to send a rider to my sister-in-law, Garrassime?” she asked, swaying a little as she held on by one hand to the door-jamb, for she was far from steady yet. Garrassime eyed her apprehensively. She did look bad, poor lady--and this was a difficult position and a rough place, after all was said and done, for such as she. “Yes, Highness,” he said in a humble voice. “Platon went with the message nigh three hours since.” Laurence heaved such a sigh of relief that she actually tottered on her tired feet, and, greatly alarmed, Garrassime picked her up like a baby and, crossing the room in two strides, had laid her down on a lounge before she knew what was happening. Dazed still, but absolutely indignant, she tried to struggle up, but an enormous hand--light as a feather--held her tenderly back, while to her outraged feelings Garrassime’s deep voice, coaxing as if he were talking to little Piotr, uttered the following astounding and unpardonable words in impulsive Russian, “My daughter, my little dove, be quiet and let your old servant take care of you now, my pretty lamb!” “That’s what comes of Basil’s impossible leniency toward his people! Impertinence! Familiarity! Indecent meddlesomeness! Ah! This unbearable pretense of belonging to the family!” thought Laurence, crimson with fury; and she wrathfully twisted out of his gentle grasp and sat up, frowning and haughty, on the edge of the lounge. “Go! And send me Célèste before I do you a mischief, you insolent dog!” she cried, pointing to the door with a rigidly extended finger and the mien of an opera-bouffe queen dismissing a slave. Completely stupefied, Garrassime stared at her, scarcely understanding what she was saying. How could his solicitude have offended her? He raised his eyes in involuntary protest; then he backed out of “The Presence,” pausing on the threshold merely long enough to make a very low and final obeisance, and was gone.