He passed his left hand quickly across his eyes. “Piotr,” he said, with an effort, the blood receding from his face and leaving it almost livid. “Piotr is officially at least a Prince Palitzin. He belongs to us, and shall remain under my care, although not with me. But this need not trouble you. He never was anything to you; the maternal fiber being, I fear, not one of your numerous strong points.” “And,” she exclaimed, fiercely, “do you not care a jot about all this? You have loved me passionately. Are you forgetting our years together--our wedding-trip--everything?” Basil looked at her for a moment, as if doubting the evidence of his own ears. Her effrontery really astounded him. “Had I not mistaken my feelings when I married you, this would have been much worse,” he said, grimly. “As it is, the souvenirs you are so thoughtful as to invoke make little impression on me!” With an execration on her lips Laurence sprang up and came close to her husband. “Ah!” she cried. “You mistook your feelings, did you? And it is _you_ who dare to call me to account for my conduct? _You_, who have loved Marguerite de Plenhöel from time immemorial, one might say--and it is _you_ who blame me for what you pretend I have done--_you_? No doubt she has not waited until now to reciprocate your tender affection. I am--” She did not finish, for with lightning-like rapidity his hand closed upon her arm. “We will leave her name out of this, if you please!” he said in a tone of command she had not yet heard from him. “You are not fit to pronounce it. Nor have you the right to draw infamous conclusions about her--or me, either--out of your richly furnished stores of malice. You know without a peradventure that you are slandering the purest of God’s creatures, and--a man who has given you every reason to respect him. Now, please, no more noise, in the interest of your own future. Try, if you can, to act with a little more dignity--before others at least.” He released her with a gesture bordering on disgust, and she fell heavily into his arms in one of those short-lived fainting-fits that are the usual resort of overstrained feminine nerves. He lifted her to the lounge, gave a quick touch to her wrist--which would have completely reassured him had he been at all anxious--and, striding to the door, called Célèste. “Your mistress is not well; look to her!” he said; and when Laurence opened her eyes she saw that he was gone. CHAPTER XVI There always is--you’ll find it true, A dance before a Waterloo.