"I did not come here to discuss Claude de Chauxville," he said, "but you, and our future." Etta drew herself up as one under the lash, and waited with set teeth. "I propose," he said, in a final voice which made it no proposition at all, "that you go home to England at once with--your cousin. This country is not safe for you. The house in London will be at your disposal. I will make a suitable settlement on you, sufficient to live in accordance with your title and position. I must ask you to remember that the name you bear has hitherto been an unsullied one. We have been proud of our princesses--up to now. In case of any trouble reaching you from outside sources connected with this country, I should like you to remember that you are under my protection and that of Steinmetz. Either of us will be glad at any time to consider any appeal for assistance that you may think fit to make. You will always be the Princess Howard Alexis." Etta gave a sudden laugh. "Oh, yes," she said, and her face was strangely red, "I shall still be the Princess Alexis." "With sufficient money to keep up the position," he went on, with the cruel irony of a slow-spoken man. A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta's face--the smile of one who is in agony and will not shriek. "There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence," went on Paul. "I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever nature with the Baron de Chauxville. I am not jealous of him--now. I do not know why." He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be. Etta knew it. The knowledge was part of her punishment. "But," continued her husband. "I am not going to sacrifice the name my mother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb. You will be kind enough to avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him. If you disregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take means to enforce them." "What means?" "I shall reduce your allowance." Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta's life. Dead things are better put out of sight at once. Etta felt that Paul's dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowance which was to be hers. She would never get away from it; she could never shake off its memory. "Am I to live alone?" asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice. "That is as you like," answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstanding her. "You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish. Perhaps--your cousin." "Maggie?" "Yes," answered Paul. For the first time since he had entered the room his eyes were averted from Etta's face. "She would not live with me," said the princess curtly. Paul seemed to be reflecting. When he next spoke it was in a kinder voice. "You need not tell the circumstances which have given rise to this arrangement." Etta shrugged her shoulders.