“Ladislaus Shulski is dead,” she said quietly, in a tone as though it gave her pleasure to say it.  “The woman Feto caused the fray, Ivan Larski shot him in her arms; he was her lover who paid, and Ladislaus the amant du coeur for the moment.  She wailed over the body like a squealing rabbit.  She was there lamenting his fine eyes when they sent for me!  They were gone for ever, but no one could mistake his curly hair, nor his cruel, white hands.  Ah! it was a scene of disgust!  I have witnessed many ugly things but that was of the worst.  I do not wish to talk of it; it is passed a year ago.  Feto heaped his grave with flowers, and joined the hero, Larski, who was allowed to escape, so all was well.”

“And since then you have lived from hand to mouth, with those others.”  And here Francis Markrute’s voice took on a new shade:  there was a cold hate in it.

“I have lived with my little brother, Mirko, and Mimo.  How could I desert them?  And sometimes we have found it hard at the end of the quarter—­but it was not always as bad as that, especially when Mimo sold a picture—­”

“I will not hear his name!” Francis Markrute said with some excitement.  “In the beginning, if I could have found him I would have killed him, as you know, but now the carrion can live, since my sister is dead.  He is not worth powder and shot.”

The Countess Shulski gave the faintest shrug of her shoulders, while her eyes grew blacker with resentment.  She did not speak.  Francis Markrute stood by the mantelpiece, and lit a cigar before he continued; he knew he must choose his words as he was dealing with no helpless thing.

“You are twenty-three years old, Zara, and you were married at sixteen,” he said at last.  “And up to thirteen at least I know you were very highly educated—­You understand something of life, I expect.”

“Life!” she said—­and now there was a concentrated essence of bitterness in her voice. “Mon Dieu! Life—­and men!”

“Yes, you probably think you know men.”

She lifted her upper lip a little, and showed her even teeth—­it was like an animal snarling.

“I know that they are either selfish weaklings, or cruel, hateful brutes like Ladislaus, or clever, successful financiers like you, my uncle.  That is enough!  Something we women must be always sacrificed to.”

“Well, you don’t know Englishmen—­”

“Yes, I remember my father very well; cold and hard to my darling mother”—­and here her voice trembled a little—­“he only thought of himself, and to rush to England for sport—­and leave her alone for months and months:  selfish and vile—­all of them!”

“In spite of that I have found you an English husband whom you will be good enough to take, madame,” Francis Markrute announced authoritatively.

She gave a little laugh—­if anything so mirthless could be called a laugh.

“You have no power over me; I shall do no such thing.”