When Madame Volkonsky entered the room, her husband placed a chair for her. Often they quarreled, and sometimes they were reported to fight, but he never omitted those little attentions. Madame Volkonsky’s face was pale. She did not know how much lay in Pembroke’s power to harm them, but she was shaken by the encounter. It was hard, just at the opening of a new life, to meet those people. It was so easy to be good now. They were free for a time from duns and creditors--for during her marriage to Ahlberg she had become acquainted with both. She had a fine establishment, a splendid position--and at the very outset arose the ghost of a dead and gone fancy, and the woman before whom she had in vain humiliated herself, and the man who knew enough to ruin her husband. It was trying and it made her look weary and very old. Volkonsky began in French: “So you met your old acquaintances to-night.” “Yes.” “That charming M. le Colonel called you Eliza Peyton.” “Yes,” again answered Madame Volkonsky. “This comes of that crazy expedition to America which I tried to dissuade you from.” Madame Volkonsky again nodded. She was not usually so meek. “And that haughty, overbearing Pembroke. Does he still cherish that romantic sentiment for you, I wonder.” Madame Volkonsky blushed faintly. She was not as devoid of delicacy as her husband. “If he does,” continued Volkonsky, meditatively, “he might be induced--if you should appeal to him--” “Appeal to him for what?” inquired Madame Volkonsky, rising and turning paler. The contempt in her tone angered Volkonsky. “Not to ruin us. That man is now in the Congress. He has to do with foreign affairs. He hates me, and, by God, I hate him. He knows things that may cause you to give up this establishment--that may send us back across the water under unpleasant circumstances. You know about the dispute at cards, and other things--you have not failed to remind me of them,--and if Pembroke is disposed he can use this with frightful effect now.” Madame Volkonsky remained perfectly silent. She was stunned by the information Volkonsky gave her--but Volkonsky was quite oblivious of her feelings. He was gnawing his yellow mustache. “You might see him,” he said. “You might appeal to him--throw yourself on his mercy--” “What a wretch you are,” suddenly burst out Madame Volkonsky in English. They had talked in French all this time, which she spoke apparently as well as English--but like most people, she fell into the vernacular when under the influence of strong emotion. Volkonsky glanced up at her. “What is it now?” he asked, peevishly. His wife turned two blazing eyes on him. The fact that she was not upon a very high plane herself did not prevent her from being indignant at his baseness--and wounded pride drove home the thrust.