After dinner, Dominey’s guests passed naturally enough to the relaxations which each preferred.  There were two bridge tables, Terniloff and the Cabinet Minister played billiards, and Seaman, with a touch which amazed every one, drew strange music from the yellow keys of the old-fashioned grand piano in the drawing-room.  Stephanie and her host made a slow progress through the hall and picture gallery.  For some time their conversation was engaged solely with the objects to which Dominey drew his companion’s attention.  When they had passed out of possible hearing, however, of any of the other guests, Stephanie’s fingers tightened upon her companion’s arm.

“I wish to speak to you alone,” she said, “without the possibility of any one overhearing.”

Dominey hesitated and looked behind.

“Your guests are well occupied,” she continued a little impatiently, “and in any case I am one of them.  I claim your attention.”

Dominey threw open the door of the library and turned on a couple of the electric lights.  She made her way to the great open fireplace, on which a log was burning, looked down into the shadows of the room and back again at her host’s face.

“For one moment,” she begged, “turn on all the lights.  I wish to be sure that we are alone.”

Dominey did as he was bidden.  The furthermost corners of the room, with its many wings of book-filled shelves, were illuminated.  She nodded.

“Now turn them all out again except this one,” she directed, “and wheel me up an easy-chair.  No, I choose this settee.  Please seat yourself by my side.”

“Is this going to be serious?” he asked, with some slight disquietude.

“Serious but wonderful,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to his.  “Will you please listen to me, Leopold?”

She was half curled up in a corner of the settee, her head resting slightly upon her long fingers, her brown eyes steadily fixed upon her companion.  There was an atmosphere about her of serious yet of tender things.  Dominey’s face seemed to fall into more rigid lines as he realised the appeal of her eyes.

“Leopold,” she began, “I left this country a few weeks ago, feeling that you were a brute, determined never to see you again, half inclined to expose you before I went as an impostor and a charlatan.  Germany means little to me, and a patriotism which took no account of human obligations left me absolutely unresponsive.  I meant to go home and never to return to London.  My heart was bruised, and I was very unhappy.”

She paused, but her companion made no sign.  She paused for so long, however, that speech became necessary.

“You are speaking, Princess,” he said calmly, “to one who is not present.  My name is no longer Leopold.”

She laughed at him with a curious mixture of tenderness and bitterness.

“My friend,” she continued, “I am terrified to think, besides your name, how much of humanity you have lost in your new identity.  To proceed it suited my convenience to remain for a few days in Berlin, and I was therefore compelled to present myself at Potsdam.  There I received a great surprise.  Wilhelm spoke to me of you, and though, alas! my heart is still bruised, he helped me to understand.”