For hours, she did not guess how many, she scarcely stirred.  Neither was the blessed boon of tears granted unto her.  Alone with her immense and immitigable misery, she lay in darkness tempered only by the dim skyshine that filtered through the window draperies; hating life, that had no mercy; hating the duplicity that had led Karslake into making untrue love to her, but inexplicably not hating Karslake himself, or the enshrined image that wore his name; hating herself for her facile readiness to give love where all but the guise of love was lacking, and for knowing this deep hurt where she should have felt only scorn and anger; but hating, most of all, or rather for the first time discovering how well she hated, him to whom unerring intuition told her she owed this brimming measure of heartbreak and humiliation, the man who called himself her father.

For if Karslake had done her a cruel wrong in winning her avowal of the love that had been growing in her heart these many weeks, while he was merely amusing himself or serving a secret purpose—­whose was the initial blame for that?

Who had egged Karslake on, as he had asserted, “to win her confidence,” leaving to him the choice of means to that end?

And—­why?

The formulation of this question marked the turning point in Sofia’s descent toward the nadir of shame and anguish; from the moment its significance was clearly apprehended (but it took her long to reach this stage) the complexion of her thoughts took on another colour, and the smart of chagrin was soothed even as the irritation excited by critical examination of Victor’s conduct grew more acute.

Why should the self-styled author of her being have thought it necessary, or even wise or kind, to commission a paid employee to win his daughter’s confidence?

What had rendered the conquest of her confidence so needful in his sight?

What had made him think Sofia would prove loath to resign it to him, or more likely to give it to another?

Why had Victor hesitated to bid for her confidence with his own tongue, on his own merits?

One would think that, if he were her father—­

If!

Was he?

Sofia sat up sharply, her young body as taut as her temper.  Pulses and breathing quickened, intent eyes probed the shadows as if she thought to wrest from them a clue to the mystery of her status in the household of Victor Vassilyevski.

What proof had she that he was her father?

None but his word....  Well, and Karslake’s....  None that would stand the test of skepticism, none that either sentiment or reason could offer and support.  Certainly she resembled Prince Victor in no respect that she could think of, not in person, not in mould of character, not in ways of thought.  From the very first she had been perplexed, and indeed saddened, by her failure, her sheer inability, to react emotionally