“Last night.”

“The Winwoods are the dearest people in the world,” said Paul, walking warily, “but they are prejudiced in my favour.”

“It wasn’t the Winwoods.”

The beautiful truth flashed upon Paul.

“Then it was the Princess Zobraska.”

The other laughed.  “Never mind.  I know all about it.  It isn’t often one has to listen to speeches at second-hand.  The question is:  Would you care to stand when the time comes?”

“I should just think I would,” cried Paul boyishly.

All his jealous resentment had given place to exultation.  It was the Princess who had told Frank Ayres.  If she had been laying him under the spell of her seduction it was on his, Paul’s, account.  She had had the splendid audacity to recite his speech to the Chief Whip.  Frank Ayres was suddenly transformed from a popinjay into an admirable fellow.  The Princess herself sat enthroned more adorable than ever.

“The only difficulty,” said Paul, “is that I have to earn my living.”

“That might be arranged,” said Lord Francis.

So Paul, as soon as he found an opportunity, danced over to Chetwood Park and told his Princess all about it, and called her a tutelary goddess and an angel and all manner of pretty names.  And the Princess, who was alone, poured for him her priceless Russian tea into egg-shell China tea-cups and fed him on English crumpets, and, in her French and feminine way, gave him the outer fringe of her heart to play with—­a very dangerous game.  She had received him, not as once before in the state drawing room, but in the intimacy of her own boudoir, a place all soft lights and cushions and tapestries and gleaming bits of sculpture.  After tea and crumpets had been consumed, the dangerous game proceeded far enough for Paul to confess his unjust dislike of Frank Ayres.

“Gros jaloux,” said the Princess.

“That was why you said que vous etes bete,” said he.

“Partly.”

“What were the other reasons?”

“Any woman has a thousand reasons for calling any man stupid.”

“Tell me some of them at any rate.”

“Well, isn’t it stupid of a man to try to quarrel with his best friend when he won’t be seeing her again for three or four months?”

“You’re not going away soon?”

“Next week.”

“Ohl” said Paul.

“Yes.  I go to Paris, then to my villa at Mont Boron.  I have the nostalgia of my own country, you see.  Then to Venice at Easter.”

I Paul looked at her wistfully, for life seemed suddenly very blank and dismal.  “What shall I do all that time without my best friend?”

“You will probably find another and forget her.”

She was lying back among cushions, pink and terra-cotta, and a round black cushion framed her delicate head.

Paul said in a low voice, bending forward:  “Do you think you are a woman whom men forget?”