"Some day Dalmorov will learn discretion," Stanief commented, almost too indolently. "It is nearly time. The Emperor did speak to me of the Countess Marya, and I pointed out to him that her brother's misconduct did not affect the matter in the least; since we are not living in China and visiting faults upon entire families. Also I explained that you rule your own household."
"But you govern us all, monseigneur," said the Gentle Princess, most naturally. "I was sure it would be right somehow; I told Marya that no one who belonged to you need be afraid."
He paused abruptly in front of her.
"Then you are not sorry that you trusted me with yourself, Iría? You are not sorry any longer that chance placed you in my keeping?"
She leaned forward across the muff, her eyes suddenly wet in their sincerity.
"Oh, no," she denied with energy. "No, monseigneur. Ah, we do not call such things chance, we women of the South, but a higher name! I have never been sorry since that first day on the winter balcony when you spoke to me so wonderfully. You—you are so good, so kind, monseigneur."
Stanief looked into those clear eyes for a long moment, his own glance veiled. Then he gently took one of the little gloved hands and lifted it to his lips.
"I seem to have been born just for that," he said, the sadness of his voice masked by its even control, "to guard what is mine. I am glad if I do it passably well, Iría. I wish I could hope that my other ward would tell me as much, some day. Come, let us go to the Emperor."
She rose, softly flushed and smiling, yet vaguely troubled by his manner.
"The Emperor?" she ventured. "He is a shadow, monseigneur! You are not satisfied with him?"