She affected black; and that was her gown, now—­cut daringly low and without a jot of color about it, save the dead white of her arms and shoulders, and a huge bunch of violets at her waist.

I thought I could guess whence the flowers came.  And, though I despised her, yet, I could but admit her dazzling beauty.

She moved slowly about the room, touching an ornament here, a picture there.  At length, she came to the table and, dropping languidly into a chair, rested her elbow on the arm and, with chin in hand, stared into vacancy.

Presently, there was a sharp knock at the corridor door.  She glanced quickly at the clock—­then, picked up a book and, sinking back in easy posture, assumed to read.

“Entrez,” she called, without looking up.

The door opened instantly and a man entered.  A long military cloak was over his plain evening dress; one fold was raised to hide his face.  He dropped it as he closed the door.

Mrs. Spencer lowered her book—­then arose with all the sinuous grace she knew so well how to assume.

“Welcome, Your Royal Highness,” she said, and curtsied very low.  “It was good of you to come.”

The Duke of Lotzen tossed off his cloak—­and, coming quickly over, took her hand and kissed it.

“It was more than good of you to let me come,” he answered.

“I feared you might not get my note,” she said.  “I believe I am under constant surveillance.”

He smiled.  “Even the Secret Police would hesitate to tamper with my mail,” he said.

“That was my hope,” she answered.

He looked at her steadily, a moment.

“I am always ready to be a—­hope to you,” he said.

She dropped her eyes—­then picked up a cigarette case from the table.

“Will Your Royal Highness smoke?” she asked.

“If you will light it for me.”

(The Princess pressed my hand.  I understood.)

Mrs. Spencer touched the cigarette to the tiny alcohol name; then offered it to the Duke.

“Someone has spoiled you,” she said lightly.

Lotzen took her hand and, with it, put the cigarette between his lips.

“Unfortunately, no,” he answered.  “But I once saw a pretty woman do that for another man.”

(Again Dehra pressed my fingers.)

“And did he hold her hand afterward?” she asked—­freeing her own from the Duke’s.

“They were not alone,” he said—­and tried to take it again.

But she put both hands behind her.

“Come, Your Highness, this is not the Masque,” she said.  But there was no reproof in her tones.

“Tell me,” said he; “how did you know me, last night?”

“What matters it?  Particularly, since it was only because you knew me that you spoke.”

“You think I was searching for you?” he asked.

She blew a cloud of smoke under the lamp shade and watched it float out at the top.