"I have no patience with you," said Mademoiselle Durette, in an exasperated whisper. "Cowards don't win when they go a-wooing. Haven't you learnt that? Ridicule her, if you like, as she does you--abuse her, do anything but gape like a stock-fish, with a white face as though all your blood had run down into the heels of your shoes!" She pushed me as she spoke into the room, and noiselessly closed the door. The Countess was seated at a spinnet in the far corner of the room, and sang in her native tongue. The song, I gathered, was a plaint, and had a strange and outlandish melancholy, the voice now lifting into a wild, keening note, now sinking abruptly to a dreary monotone. It oppressed me with a peculiar sadness, making the singer seem very lonely and far-away; and I leaned silently against the wall, not daring to interrupt her. At last the notes began to quaver, the voice broke once and twice; she gave a little sob, and her head fell forward on her hands. An inrush of pity swept all my diffidence away. I stepped hastily forward with outstretched hands. At the sound she sprang to her feet and faced me, the colour flaming in her cheeks. "Madame," cried I, "if my intrusion lacks ceremony, believe me----" But I got no further in my protestations. For with a sneer upon her lips and a biting accent of irony, "So," she broke in, looking me over, "the crow has turned into a cockatoo." And she rang a bell which stood upon the spinnet. I stopped in confusion, and not knowing what to say or do, remained foolishly shifting from one foot to the other, the while Ilga watched me with a malicious pleasure. In a minute Otto Krax came to the door. "How comes it," she asked sternly, "that Mr. Buckler enters unannounced? Have I no servants?" The fellow explained that Mademoiselle Durette had taken the duty to herself. "Send Mademoiselle Durette to me!" said the Countess. I was ready to sink through the floor with humiliation, and busied my wits in a search for a plausible excuse. I had not found one when the Frenchwoman appeared. Countess Lukstein repeated her question. Mademoiselle Burette was no readier than myself, and glanced with a frightened air from me to her mistress, and back again from her mistress to me. Remembering what she had said on the landing about my irresolution, I felt my shame doubled. "Madame," I stammered out, "the fault is in no wise your companion's. The blame of it should fall on me." "Oh!" said she, "really?" And turning to Mademoiselle Durette, she began to clap her hands. "I believe," she exclaimed in a mock excitement, "that Mr. Buckler is going to make me a present of a superb cockatoo. Clemence, you must buy a cage and a chain for its leg!" Clemence stared in amazement, as well she might, and I, stung to a passion, "Nay," I cried, and for once my voice rang firmly. "By the Lord, you count too readily upon Mr. Buckler's gift. Mr. Buckler has come to offer you no present, but to take his leave for good and all."