A girl looked up and saw him.  It was a superbly decorated salon he had invaded.  Soft-hued rugs were on the floor and draperies of cloth of gold veiled the shadows.  Betty Dalrymple had been standing at a window, gazing out at night—­only night—­or the white glimmer from an electric light that frosting the rail, made the dark darker.  She appeared neither surprised nor perturbed at the appearance of the nobleman—­doubtlessly she had been expecting that intrusion.  He stopped short, his dark eyes gleaming.  It was enough for the moment just to look at her.  Place and circumstance seemed forgotten; the spirit of an old ancestor—­one of the great khans—­looked out in his gaze.  Passion and anger alternated on his features; when she regarded him like that he longed to crush her to him; instead, now, he continued to stand motionless.

“Pardon me,” he could say it with a faint smile.  Then threw out a hand.  “Ah, you are beautiful!” All that was oriental in him seemed to vibrate in the words.

Betty Dalrymple’s answer was calculated to dispel illusion and glamour.  “Don’t you think we can dispense with superfluous words?” Her voice was as ice.  “Under the circumstances,” she added, full mistress of herself.

His glance wavered, again concentrated on her, slender, warm-hued as an houri in the ivory and gold palace of one of the old khans—­but an houri with disconcerting straightness of gaze, and crisp matter-of-fact directness of utterance.  “You are cruel; you have always been,” he said.  “I offer you all—­everything—­my life, and you—­”

“More superfluous words,” said Betty Dalrymple in the same tone, the flash of her eyes meeting the darkening gleam of his.  “Put me ashore, and as soon as may be.  This farce has gone far enough.”

“Farce?” he repeated.

“You have only succeeded in making yourself absurd and in placing me in a ridiculous position.  Put me ashore and—­”

“Ask of me the possible—­the humanly possible—­” He moved slightly nearer; her figure swayed from him.

“You are mad—­mad—­”

“Granted!” he said.  “A Russian in love is always a madman.  But it was you who—­”

“Don’t!” she returned.  “It is like a play—­” The red lips curved.

He looked at them and breathed harder.  Her words kindled anew the flame in his breast.  “A play?  That is what it has been for you.  A mild comedy of flirtation!” The girl flushed hotly.  “Deny it if you can—­that you didn’t flirt, as you Americans call it, outrageously.”

An instant Betty Dalrymple bit her lip but she returned his gaze steadily enough.  “The adjective is somewhat strong.  Perhaps I might have done what you say, a little bit—­for which,” with an accent of self-scorn, “I am sorry, as I have already told you.”

He brought together his hands.  “Was it just a ‘little bit’ when at Homburg you danced with me nearly every time at the grand duchess’ ball? Sapristi!  I have not forgotten.  Was it only a ‘little bit’ when you let me ride with you at Pau—­those wild steeplechases!—­or permitted me to follow you to Madrid, Nice, elsewhere?—­wherever caprice took you?”