"You would not come to me, Alexis, so I have to come to you," was her greeting. "You neglect me. I suppose because of the great friends you have made."
"Great friends?" For the moment not understanding her.
"Yes. I hear that you are finding great pleasure in the society of a certain great lady."
"Oh, you mean the Princess Weletsky?" I laughed as I spoke.
"It does not make me laugh," she said, frowning.
"You are in mourning, and laughter sounds ill with tears," I returned. I hated the woman worse every time I saw her.
"If I am in mourning it is you who are the cause," she cried, stamping her foot, angrily. "I want to know what this new—new friendship, shall I call it?—means."
"You may call it what you like. The Princess is nothing to me," said I, thinking more of my affections than of the facts.
"And never will be?" said my companion abruptly.
"And never will be, I hope," I agreed, with the accents of unmistakable sincerity.