The refusal to play irritates him still more. He knows Keith is very rich, and had hoped to revenge his wounded feelings by fleecing him with ease. Keith has frustrated this agreeable project and that fact rankles in the Count's breast, beneath the expanse of white linen and glittering orders that adorn it so lavishly. The evening goes on. Wine is handed round and freely drunk. A little more noise and freedom than usual pervade the pretty, gilded rooms. Lady Jean gets somewhat uneasy. She contrives to get rid of Keith; it does not suit her purpose that he should think of her as anything but highly decorous. When he leaves and she comes back, Count Karolyski throws down his cards, declaring he is tired of play, and comes over to her side. "You are cruel, madame," he says in French. "You have deserted us the whole evening." She throws herself back in her chair with a little laugh. "Cruel! You had better amusement than my company." "Amusement! It is not that," he says, with an ardent glance from his dark, flashing eyes. "You are cold--fickle. You are breaking my heart for the sake of that American boy." She interrupts him with pretended indignation. "Count, you forget yourself! I permit no one to arraign my actions." "Far be it from me to do that. I would not offend you for worlds, madame; but I cannot refrain from expressing my feelings when I see your old friends thrust aside and forgotten, for sake of a beardless youth to whom Fortune has been kinder than to us." "I do not forget my friends," says Lady Jean, with a quick glance; "and I am only civil to this boy because he is friendless and alone, and I took pity on his solitude." "Your pity, madame, may be a dangerous favour. To those whom you really compassionate, exclusion would be the greater mercy." "Every one is not as foolish as yourself, Count," she says with a soft glance. It is pleasant to hear she is still beautiful--still can play the part of an "apple of discord" to men. "Because, perhaps, 'every one' has not found your presence what I have found it." "Hush!" she says softly; "you are talking folly, and you know it. The days are over when I believed in compliments." "You do not suppose I am insulting you by anything so commonplace? Compliment is the language of fools and flatterers. I am speaking the plain unvarnished truth." "Truth!" and she laughs lightly; "who speaks the truth now? It is as old-fashioned a virtue as honesty." "Unless one finds it impossible to act indifference." "Come, Count," she says good-humouredly, "we know each other too well to talk in this strain. We are all _bons camarades_ here; no sentiment, and no seriousness. I gave you credit for more sense than to fear you would break through the rule." His brows contract with a sudden angry frown.