“Well?” he demanded stupidly.  Her tone had been beyond his comprehension.  “Felix,” she went on, apparently at random, “is very satisfactory.”  Something of her intent penetrated his stunned faculties.  He advanced toward her dark with rage.  “And if he is,” he replied, “it will do him no good.  It will do you no good, if you think—­” he broke off from an accession of emotion.  “What damned thing are you thinking of?”

“The Princess Amelia’s stockings,” she answered pertly.

“You’ll never put them on her again, like any dirty chamber maid.”

“Felix, the end of this week,” she repeated.

“I’ll kill him,” Howat whispered; “if he lifts a hand I’ll shoot him through the head.  This was forced on me; some one else, responsible, can pay.”  Her chin was up, her expression mocking.  “Ridiculous, like any cloddish countryman.”  She walked deliberately away, seated herself in a graceful eddy of panniered silk.

A cold torment succeeded his rage; he had the feeling of being hopelessly trapped, stifling in his passion.  He followed her.  “Ludowika, this is horrible, so soon.  I am willing to think that I am to blame; stupid; no experience.  You will have to be patient with me.  Naturally everything, now—­” he broke off and wandered to a window, holding aside the draperies, gazing out into the night.  The sky was so luminous that the barriers of surrounding hills were printed clearly against starry space.  The forest swept about in a dark veil; nowhere could be seen a glimpse of habitation.  He heard the wavering cry of an owl.

The Province, immense, secretive!  Paper lanterns strung in parks, hid music, provocative smiles only playing with the heart!  It was tremendously unfortunate.  Why must they suffer so unreasonably?  Something, he was certain, had gone wrong; it lay both within them and outside; a force diverted, a purpose unaccomplished.  It bent, broke, them like two twigs; they were no more than two bubbles, momentarily reflecting the sky, on a profound depth.  A wind stirred, oppressed them, and they were gone.  A great pity for Ludowika took its place in his feelings.  He was sorry for himself.  Suddenly the rustle of her skirts approached.

An infinitely seductive, warm arm crept about his neck; she abandoned herself to a ruthless embrace.  “It’s been wonderful, Howat; and—­and it isn’t over, yet.  Nothing lasts, it’s a mistake to demand too much.  We must take what we may.  Perhaps, even, later—­in London.  No, don’t interrupt me.  After all, I’m wiser than you are.  I was swept away for a little.  Impossibilities.  I am what I am.  I was always that, inside of me.  If the longing I told you about had been stronger, it, and not the court, would have made me; but it was no more than a glimpse seen from a window, a thing far away.  I’d never reach it.  This, now, has been the best of me, all.”