And she knew it, too.  One sight of Mrs. Clephane with him and she realized that he was lost to her:  Mrs. Clephane had all her outward grace and beauty, but not her past.  Her woman’s intuition had told her in the red-room of the Chateau; she knew absolutely when she saw his greeting to Mrs. Clephane in the corridor after her escape.  She must go back to her Count de M——­, her Cabinet Minister, and her Russian Grand Duke.  The only two men she had ever cared for would have none of her, despite her beauty and her fascination.  Dalberg ever had scorned her; Harleston had looked with favour, wavered, was about to yield, when another—­outwardly her alter ego, save only in the colour of her hair—­appeared and filched him from her.  And whether Dalberg’s scorn or Harleston’s defection was the more humiliating, she did not know.  Together they made a mocking and a desolation of her love and her life.  And as she came to hate with a fierce hatred the Princess whom Dalberg loved, so with an even more bitter hatred she hated Mrs. Clephane who had won Harleston from her.  For while with Dalberg she never had the slightest chance, and knew it perfectly, with Harleston there was the bitterness of blasted hopes as well as of defeat.

And Harleston, sitting there beside her, the perfume of her hair and garments heavy about him, read much that was in her thoughts; and some remorse smote him—­a little of remorse, that is—­and he would have said something in mitigation of her judgment.  But a look at her—­and the excuse was put aside and the subject ended before it was even begun.  She was not one to accept excuses or to be proffered them, it were best to let the matter rest.  Meanwhile, Mrs. Clephane must be warned of the danger confronting her.

He glanced again at her—­and met her subtle smile.

“This Mrs. Clephane,” she remarked with quiet derision, “wherein is she different from the rest of us?”

“By ‘us’ you mean whom?” he asked.

“The women you have known.”

“And seen?”

“And seen.”

“You’re exceedingly catholic!” he smiled.

“You’re exceedingly exclusive—­and precipitate; and you haven’t answered my question.  Wherein is Mrs. Clephane different from the rest of us?”

“At the risk of being personal,” he replied, “I should say that she is very like you in face and figure and manner.  If her hair were black, the resemblance would be positively striking.”

“Then, since we’re on the personal equation, the difference is where?”

He threw up his hands and laughed to avoid the obvious answer, an answer which she knew, and knew he wished to avoid.

“The difference is where?” she repeated.

“I shall let you judge if there is a difference, and if there is, what it is,” he replied.

“I wish to know your mind, Mr. Harleston—­I already know my own.”

“Good girl!” he applauded.