Verisschenzko looked at her, with his cynical, humorous smile, whose meaning never reached her. He took in the transparent garments which hardly covered her, and then he bent and picked up a man's handkerchief which lay on a table near. "_Tiens_! Harietta!" he remarked lazily. "Since when has Stanislass taken to using this very Eastern perfume?" and he sniffed with disgust. The wide look of startled innocence grew in Madame Boleski's hazel eyes. "I believe Stanislass must have got a mistress, Stepan. I have noticed lately these scents on his things--as you know, he never used any before!" "The handkerchief is marked with 'F.A.' I suppose the _blanchisseuse_ mixes them in hotels. Let us burn the memento of a husband's straying fancies then; the taste in perfumes of his inamorata is anything but refined," and Verisschenzko tossed the bit of cambric into the fire which sparkled in the grate. "I've lots of news to tell you, Darling Brute--but I shan't--yet! Have you come to England to see that bit of bread and butter--or--?" But Verisschenzko, with a fierce savagery which she adored, crushed her in his arms. CHAPTER XI On the Tuesday morning after the Carlton dinner, fate fell upon Denzil and Amaryllis in the way the jade does at times, swooping down upon them suddenly and then like a whirlwind altering the very current of their destiny. It came about quite naturally, too, and not by one of those wildly improbable situations which often prove truth to be stranger than fiction. Amaryllis was settled in an empty compartment of the Weymouth express at Paddington. She had said good-bye to John the evening before, and he had returned to camp. She was going back to Ardayre, and feeling very miserable. Everything had been a disillusion. John's reserve seemed to have augmented, and she had been unable to break it down, and all the new emotions which she was trembling with and longing to express, had grown chilled. Presumably John must be pleased at the possibility of having a son since it was his heart's desire; but it almost seemed as though the subject embarrassed him! And all the beautiful things which she had meant to say to him about it remained unspoken. He was stolidly matter-of-fact. What could it all mean? At last she had become deeply hurt and had cried with a tremour in her voice the morning before he left her: "Oh! John, how different you have become; it can't be the same you who once called me 'Sweetheart' and held me so closely in your arms! Have I done anything to displease you, dearest? Aren't you glad that I am going to have a baby?" He had kissed her and assured her gravely that he was glad--overjoyed. And his eyes had been full of pain, and he had added that he was stupid and dull, but that she must not mind--it was only his way. "Alas!" she had answered and nothing more. She dwelt upon these things as she sat in the train gazing out of the window on the blank side.