"Wait and I will go with you," he offered. "I must have the Emperor's approval of these plans for next week. Have you delivered madame's letter?"
"Not yet, monseigneur. I am afraid I forgot it."
"Give it to me and I will leave it with her in passing. I have not seen her to-day."
It had come to that point; the cold and self-contained Stanief sought a pretext in these days to see the delicate face he loved. The Gentle Princess was hurting him as no one else could.
Up in her cream-and-azure boudoir, Iría was alone when Stanief entered. She was bending over a table heaped with water-lilies and purple Florentine irises from the conservatory, herself quite radiant with their reflected brightness as she lifted the heavy petals and breathed their fragrance. Her back to the door, she did not turn at once to see who came unannounced.
"Look, Marya," she called gladly and sweetly. "Come here; were ever things so lovely? So the irises grew at home, knee-deep in the clear pools, like enchanted princes. And the lilies,—over them the dragon-flies hovered all day and between their stems the goldfish slept and played."
She moved with the last word and saw Stanief; a tall, soldierly presence in the filagree room.
"Oh," she exclaimed faintly, "pardon, monseigneur!"
"For what?" he demanded. "It is I who should apologize for disturbing you here. I have a letter from the Emperor for you."
"Thank you, monseigneur," she murmured, and accepted the massive envelop to lay it listlessly on the table.