Outwardly she was, however, exceedingly composed and self-possessed.  She had been as careful as ever of her toilet—­as hard to please; as—­dare we say snappish with her maids?  The beautiful hair had no one of its aureate threads out of place.  The pink of her shell-like cheek was steady, unruffled, fair to behold.  Her whole demeanor was admirable in its well-bred repose.  Did she love him?  Was it in her power to love any man?  Not the humble chronicler—­not any man, perhaps, and but few women—­can essay an answer.  Suffice it that she accepted him.  In exchange for the title he could give her, the position he could assure to her, the wealth he was ready to lavish upon her, and, lastly, let us mention, in the effete, old-fashioned way, the love he bore her—­in exchange for these she gave him her hand.

Thus Etta Sydney Bamborough was enabled to throw down her cards at last and win the game she had played so skilfully.  The widow of an obscure little Foreign Office clerk, she might have been a baroness, but she put the smaller honor aside and aspired to a prince.  Behind the gay smile there must have been a quick and resourceful brain, daring to scheme, intrepid in execution.  Within the fair breast there must have been a heart resolute, indomitable, devoid of weak scruple.  Mark the last.  It is the scruple that keeps the reader and his humble servant from being greater men than they are.

“Yes,” says Etta, allowing Paul to take her perfectly gloved hand in his great, steady grasp; “yes, I have my answer ready.”

They were alone in the plashy solitude of an inner conservatory, between the songs of the great singers.  She was half afraid of this strong man, for he had strange ways with him—­not uncouth, but unusual and somewhat surprising in a finnicking, emotionless generation.

“And what is it?” whispers Paul eagerly.  Ah! what fools men are—­what fools they always will be!

Etta gave a little nod, looking shamefacedly down at the pattern of her lace fan.

“Is that it?” he asked breathlessly.

The nod was repeated, and Paul Howard Alexis was thereby made the happiest man in England.  She half expected him to take her in his arms, despite the temporary nature of their solitude.  Perhaps she half wished it; for behind her business-like and exceedingly practical appreciation of his wealth there lurked a very feminine curiosity and interest in his feelings—­a curiosity somewhat whetted by the manifold differences that existed between him and the society lovers with whom she had hitherto played the pretty game.

But Paul contented himself with raising the gloved fingers to his lips, restrained by a feeling of respect for her which she would not have understood and probably did not merit.

“But,” she said with a sudden smile, “I take no responsibility.  I am not very sure that it will be a success.  I can only try to make you happy—­goodness knows if I shall succeed!”