She laughed drearily.

“Eyes may meet in the street without speech, a glance may burn its way into the soul.  Once I thought that I might love again, because a stranger smiled at me in the Bois, and he had grey eyes, and that look about his mouth which a woman craves for.  He passed on, and I forgot.  You see, my lord was still there.—­So this is the woman.”

“Who knows?” he answered.

Immelan came into the box a little abruptly.  There was a cloud upon his face which he did his best to conceal.  Almost simultaneously, a messenger from behind the scenes arrived for Nita.  She rose to her feet and wrapped her green cloak closely around her lissom figure.

“In a quarter of an hour,” she said, “I have to appear again.  It is to be good-night, then?”

She raised her eyes to his, and for a moment the appeal which knows no nationality shone out of their velvety depths.  She stood before him simply, like a slave who pleads.  Not a muscle of Prince Shan’s face moved.

“It is to be good-night, Nita,” he answered calmly.

Her head drooped, and she passed out.  She had the air of a flower whose petals have been bruised.  Immelan looked after her curiously, almost compassionately.

“It is finished, then, with the little one, Prince?” he enquired.

“It is finished,” was the calm reply.

Immelan stroked his short moustache thoughtfully.

“Is it wise?” he ventured.  “She has been faithful and assiduous.  She knows many things.”

Prince Shan’s eyes were filled with mild wonder.

“She has had some years of my occasional companionship,” he said.  “It is surely as much as she could hope for or expect.  We are not like you Westerners, Immelan,” he went on.  “Our women are the creatures of our will.  We call them, or we send them away.  They know that, and they are prepared.”

“It seems a little brutal,” Immelan muttered.

“You prefer your method?” his companion asked.  “Yet you practise deceit.  Your fancy wanders, and you lie about it.  You lose your dignity, my friend.  No woman is worth a man’s lie.”

Immelan was leaning back in his chair, gazing steadfastly across the crowded theatre.

“Your principles,” he said, “are suited to your own womenkind.  La Belle Nita has become westernised.  Are you sure that she accepts the situation as she would if she dwelt with you in Pekin?”

“I am her master,” Prince Shan declared calmly.  “I have made no promises that I have not fulfilled.”

“The promise between a man and a woman is an unspoken one,” Immelan persisted.  “You have not been in Europe for five months.  All that time she has awaited you.”

“Something else has happened,” Prince Shan said deliberately.

“Since your arrival in London?”

“Since my arrival in London, since I stepped out of my ship last night.”

Immelan was frankly incredulous.