Sofia withdrew a pensive gaze from the ruddy bed of coals.

“For what?”

“You were kind enough to call it merely fibbing.”

“I’m still thinking about that.”

In fact, she had been thinking of nothing else.  There was so much to be considered.  Imprimis, that Karslake had been guilty of practising a deception upon her father.  Deceit in itself was one form of treachery.  And how often had Victor stressed to her the dangers of his position, surrounded by nameless but implacable enemies who would stick at no infamy to compass his ruin!

But if she told him that Karslake understood Chinese she would lose her friend forever—­no question about that.  Victor would not hesitate an instant—­indeed, Sofia felt sure he was only waiting for some such pretext to get rid of his secretary.  She was anything but unobserving, this child of Soho, whose wits had been sharpened in the sophisticated atmosphere of a French restaurant; and more than once she had seen Victor’s face duplicate the expression Papa Dupont’s had so often assumed on his discovering that some patron of the cafe was taking too personal an interest in the pretty young dame du comptoir.  A look of insensate jealousy ...

To risk forfeiting the comradeship that had grown to be so dear?  Or to be constructively derelict in her duty as a daughter?

A difficult choice to make; but Sofia made it honestly.  In point of fact, she assured herself, coldly, there was no choice, there was only one thing she could do under the circumstances.  And she hardened her heart and eyes as she rose to face Karslake on more equal terms.

But when she saw him waiting patiently, with that friendly smile of his she knew so well, she hesitated long enough to permit his anticipating her with a quiet question: 

“Well, Princess Sofia?”

And then, amazingly, her tongue betrayed her, the phrases she had framed so carefully vanished utterly from out her mind; and she heard herself saying in rather tremulous accents: 

“It’s all right.  I shan’t tell.”

“About my understanding Chinese?”

“Yes—­about that.”

“Then you do care—?”

She was panicky with knowledge that somehow her emotions had managed to slip their moorings and get beyond her handling.  It didn’t help or mend matters much to hear her own voice stammering: 

“Yes, of course, I—­I don’t want you to—­to have to go away—­”

Oh, the vanity of trying to hoodwink him who knew so well what she was now for the first time realizing!

“Because you like me a little, Princess Sofia?”

“Why—­yes—­of course I do—­”

“Because you know I love you, dear.”

And then she found herself clinging to Karslake; and his lips were warm upon her hands ...

So suddenly and at long last it came to Sofia, that Love for which all her days had been one long weariness of waiting, Love that brimmed with raptures what had been only aching emptiness and made the desert places to blossom as the rose.  And the joy of it proved overmastering, sweeping her off her feet and dazing her, leaving her breathless and thoughtless but for the all-obscuring thought—­at length she loved, and the one whom she loved loved her!