“No, no!” Beatrice exclaimed.  “Hold that end—­so—­now turn it that way—­no, the other way—­it is in the glass—­so—­now keep it there while I put in a pin—­no, no—­in the same place, but the other way—­oh, Sister Paul!  Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?”

“That was so long ago,” answered the nun meekly.  “Let me try again.”

The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not wanting in the element of novelty.

“Are you not afraid to go alone?” asked Sister Paul with evident preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet.

But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste.  Sister Paul walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules would allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour.  Then as the latter went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audibly repeating prayers for her preservation.

The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and grated window.  Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wall at regular intervals.  There was no table, but a square piece of green carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement.  A richly ornamented glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangely out of place since the old carved furniture was gone.  A crucifix of inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door.  The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated outside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of the convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders.

Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for Beatrice.  When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner.

“My dear lady,” he said, “I am here.  I have lost no time.  It so happened that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a morning drive.  I had no idea that you were in Bohemia.”

“Thanks.  It was good of you to come so soon.”

She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow her example.

“And your dear father—­how is he?” inquired Keyork with suave politeness, as he took his seat.

“My father died a week ago,” said Beatrice gravely.

Keyork’s face assumed all the expression of which it was capable.  “I am deeply grieved,” he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and purring sub-bass.  “He was an old and valued friend.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Keyork, who knew many things, was well aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that it had lasted to the end.  He thought therefore that his expression of sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster.