“If you are surprised, Countess,” he said, “well, I have been the victim of that time-worn fallacy which ascribes to any woman at any time the knowledge of being loved. You have always been the object of my respectful admiration. You are now——”
She threw out her hands—a silencing gesture.
“Enough!” she exclaimed. “I do not know what you are going to say. I do not wish to hear it.”
“You must!” he declared. “You shall hear me!”
She turned her back upon him, but he was between her and the door. He turned the key in the lock, and faced her—a new Domiloff, wolf-like, with evil things in his white face and black eyes.
“You shall promise to be my wife,” he said, “or——”
“Or what?”
She did not quail. His eyes fell before hers. But the key slipped into his pocket.
“Or you do not leave this house,” he answered. “I am master here. The whole quarter is Russian. Be reasonable, Countess. The alliance is worthy of your consideration.”
She leaned suddenly forward, and struck him across the cheek.