There was no denying the fact that with all his confidence his colors were sinking, while hers remained as gallantly fluttering as when the struggle began.  He was becoming confused and nervous; a feeling of impotence began slyly, devilishly to assail him, and he frequently found himself far out at sea.  The strange inactivity of the prince’s cohorts, the significant friendliness of the duke, the everlasting fear that a sudden move might catch him unawares began to tell on his peace of mind.  Both he and Turk watched like cats for the slightest move that might betray the intentions of the foe, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing.  The house in which Courant found safety was watched, but it gave forth no secrets.  The duke’s every movement appeared to be as open, as fair, as unsuspicious as man’s could be, and yet there was ever present the feeling that some day something would snap and a crisis would rush upon them.  Late one afternoon he drove up to the house in Avenue Louise, and when Dorothy came downstairs for the drive her face was beaming.

“Ugo comes to-morrow,” she said, as they crossed to the carriage.

“Which means that I am to be relegated to the dark,” he said, dolefully.

“Oh, no!  Ugo likes you and I like you, you know.  Why, are we not to be the same good friends as now?” she asked, suddenly, with a pretty show of surprise.

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, looking straight ahead.  They were driving rapidly toward the Bois de la Cambre.  “But, of course, I’ll not rob the prince of moments that belong to him by right of conquest.  You may expect to see me driving disconsolately along the avenue—­alone.”

“Mr. Savage will be here,” she said, sweetly, enjoying his first show of misery.

“But he’s in love, and he’ll not be thinking of me.  I’m the only one in all Christendom, it seems to me, who is not in love with somebody, and it’s an awful hardship.”

“You will fall really in love some day, never fear,” she volunteered, after a somewhat convulsive twist of the head in his direction.

“Unquestionably,” he said, “and I shall be just as happy and as foolish as the rest of you, I presume.”

“I should enjoy seeing you really and truly in love with some girl.  It would be so entertaining.”

“A perfect comedy, I am sure.  I must say, however, that I’d feel sorry for the girl I loved if she didn’t happen to love me.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because,” he said, turning abruptly and looking straight into her eyes, “she’d have the trouble and distinction of surrendering in the end.”

“You vain, conceited thing!” she exclaimed, a trifle disconcerted.  “You overestimate your power.”

“Do you think I overestimate it?” he demanded, quickly.

“I don t—­don’t know.  How should I know?” she cried, in complete rout.  In deep chagrin she realized that he had driven her sharply into unaccountable confusion, and that her wits were scattering hopelessly at the very moment when she needed them most.