She studied her fan a moment.  “From me, only?” she asked.

“From you, only,” I said.  “It would require a trifle more than half a chance from anyone else.”

“Even from the Lady Helen Radnor?” she asked.

I watched her face a moment.  There was, I felt, only one way to play this out.

“Well,” I answered, “it might be that an even half chance would suffice from her.”

“It took rather less than that at the Birthday Ball, didn’t it?”

I had the grace to keep silent—­or, maybe, I was too surprised to know an answer.  I did not have the courage to meet her eyes.  I stared into the audience, seeing no one, thinking much—­hoping she would speak; but she did not.

Presently I turned, looking like a whipped child, I know, and met Dehra’s smiling face.

“Tie my slipper, dear,” she said, “the ribbon has come undone.”

“You sweetheart!” I said.  “You sweetheart!”

She drew her gown back from the footstool, and I slowly tightened the silken bands over the high-arched instep—­very slowly, I confess.

“You’re very naughty, Armand,” she said, shaking her head in mock reproof.

“Doesn’t the other shoe need fastening?” I asked.

“No, sir—­and, if it did, I would have the Countess tie it.”

“Bother the Countess,” I said. (The Countess Giska was the Princess’s chief Lady in Waiting—­and she and my aide-de-camp, Moore, were in the rear of the Box, which, fortunately, was sufficiently deep to put them out of ear-shot.)

“Or, I might ask Major Moore.  I think he would be glad to do it,” she said.

“He would be a most extraordinary Irishman if he were not more than glad,” I said.  “But, when I’m around, Dehra, the pleasure is mine alone.”

“Goodness, Armand, you would not be jealous?” she mocked.

“I don’t know what it’s called,” said I, “but that’s it.”

“Haven’t you ever been jealous, dear?” she asked.

“I never cared enough for a girl to be jealous,” I said.

“I fancy you’ve cared for so many you had no time to entertain the Green-eyed Monster,” she said.

I evaded the thrust.  “Has he ever visited you?” I asked.

She ignored the question.

“Isn’t Lady Helen beautiful to-night?” she said—­and smiled a greeting toward the British Ambassador’s Box.

Instantly, Lord Radnor and Courtney arose and bowed low.  I returned the salute in kind.

“Tell me,” I said.  “Were you ever jealous?”

She kept her eyes on the stage.  Carmen was the opera, but, thus far, I had not heard a single note.

“I am waiting for you to answer my question,” she said, presently.

“I fear I missed it,” I replied.

“Queer, surely—­it was about Lady Helen.  I asked if she were not beautiful to-night.”

“She is always very handsome,” I said.  “And she looks particularly well in blue.”