"I am not made for your amusement, Prince. How dare you always treat me as you do?" And Tamara drew herself up haughtily. "And if my veins contain milk and water, it is at least my own."
"You dared me once before, Madame," he said, smiling provokingly. "Do you think it is quite wise of you to try it again?"
"I do not care if it is wise or no. I hate you!" almost hissed poor
Tamara.
Then his eyes blazed, as she had never seen them yet. He moved nearer to her, and spoke in a low concentrated voice.
"It is a challenge. Good. Now listen to what I say. In a little short time you shall love me. That haughty little head shall lie here on my breast without a struggle, and I shall kiss your lips until you cannot breathe."
For the second time in her life Tamara went dead white—he saw her pale even to her lips. And since the moment was not yet, and since his mood was not now to make her suffer, he bent over with contrition and asked her to forgive him in a tender voice.
"Madame—I am only joking—but I am a brute," he said.
Tamara rose and walked to the bridge tables, furious with herself that he could have seen his power over her, even though it were only to cause rage.
He came up behind her and sat down and began to talk nicely again—about the sights to be seen in the capital, and the interesting museums and collections of pictures and arms. Nothing could be more correct than his manner, and the bridge players who were within earshot smiled, while Countess Olga thought.
"Either Gritzko has just been making love to the Englishwoman, or he is immensely bored—The latter from his face."