The shadow of a sob crossed Iría's sensitive face; she looked up at him bravely and gratefully. "You are good," she said hurriedly. "I never hoped you would be like this to me, monseigneur. No one ever thought of me so carefully before, never. But it is right to tell you, _because_ you are so good. I know that you did not wish this marriage, either, we are alike so. Baron Dalmorov informed me this morning." "I am infinitely indebted to Baron Dalmorov," observed Stanief, his dark brows contracting in an expression that might have terrified into flight Iría's new-found confidence, if she had not been absorbed in her confession. "I was not hurt, monseigneur; it made it easier to know. And now I can tell you; I, I hate secrets. There was some one--oh, some one quite impossible and who does not care for me at all. He does not dream I ever thought, like that. But I fancied he was some one else--I misunderstood. It was not his fault in any way. I had to tell you, monseigneur; it seemed to me right to do so." Stanief leaned forward and laid his hand over the cold hands folded in her lap. He had never before believed that a woman could be frank, never imaged one who "hated secrets." It was as if he stood on the threshold of a room all perfume and whiteness; and not the most accomplished coquette could have devised a means of moving him so profoundly. "All my life I shall remember that you gave me your confidence, Iría," he answered, with exquisite delicacy and respect. "So far I am happier than you; I love no one. Have no doubt, no dread of anything I can save you. Some good may come of all this, how can we tell? And at least there is no need of making it worse by not understanding. You will not shrink so much from to-morrow, now?" She met his eyes, helpless as a child in the great reaction; his warm clasp seemed to melt the chill despair of the last days, a little color came back to her cheek and something flashed rainbow-like upon her lashes. "Not now," she sighed quiveringly. "Thank you, monseigneur." Stanief raised her hand to his lips, and presently they went back to the Duquesa. After which he went in search of Adrian. The Emperor was talking to Allard when his cousin came up to the alcove where they were ensconced, and he sat motionless with astonishment at sight of Stanief's steel-hard glance and compressed lips. "Cousin?" he exclaimed, daunted in spite of himself. Allard had risen at the approach, but Stanief did not regard him and Adrian gave no permission to retire. "Sire," Stanief said, in the markedly quiet tone that came with his rare anger, "it is frequently your Imperial Majesty's pleasure to submit me and my affairs to the discussion or criticism of Baron Dalmorov. I have made no complaint, I make none now, but there is a limit to such endurance. The lady who is to be my wife--" Allard moved involuntarily; Adrian raised his hand in swift protest. "Cousin, I assure you--" Stanief saluted him formally.