“Oh,” she cried, “won’t you look round? Won’t you read the truth in my eyes? Take care, Basil, of what you are doing! Don’t push me too far!” The sentence that had begun in entreaty ended in a snarl of weak rage and menace that made Basil pivot on his heels and look at her with new surprise. “I believe, God forgive me, that you are attempting to threaten me!” he said, holding back his anger with a strong effort. She was hanging her head, but not in shame; her hands were clasped between her knees, upon which the thin material of her dress drew tightly, and she glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “If I do anything desperate,” she said, between her teeth, “it will be your fault.” And then in one of those moments of complete mental abandonment--a sudden weakening of over-taxed faculties to which women when cornered are liable--she committed the most fatal error of all. “Who,” she asked, furiously--“who told you all this against me? Was it Régis de Plenhöel who talked?” Basil’s eyes were dark steel. “Régis de Plenhöel--Régis?” he echoed. “What has he to do with all this? Surely you did not make him your confidant?” Too late she saw her terrible mistake. “No! No!” she cried, throwing out protesting arms. “I don’t know what I am talking about. I did not say that!” But the harm was done. “So,” Basil said, “there are more than three of us to share this abominable secret! Well, that alters the case--for the future, that is!” He took a step toward her. “_À nous deux_, then, madame,” he said, “for the present, at any rate. You are going to tell me exactly in what way that chivalrous fellow Régis has been mixed up by you in this shameful business, or else I’ll know the reason why!” The poor devil who but an instant ago was inwardly writhing in agony was gone. Nothing of him remained in evidence. It was now the judge, calm and inexorable, who stood before her, and that judge was her husband, and--a Prince--which will continue to make a difference throughout the ages, especially to natures like hers, in spite of all to the contrary that can be howled to the multitude or printed in the malodorous pamphlets and “up-to-date” novels of a socialistic press. And now for the second time it was imperative for her to decide what to say, instantly, in extenuation of her previous words. Her tortuous mind flickered under the effort, but she chose her line of defense, and spoke: “That chivalrous fellow, Plenhöel, as you are pleased to call him, is not quite the pure white knight you think him. He--since you force me to say it--deigned from the first to look with favor upon me--pardon me for adopting the grandiloquent style you use yourself!” The sneer was unmistakable, and in her best manner. Basil’s features grew a little more rigid. “Go on!” he said.