"My sympathy----"
"A most dangerous word, current only in that Utopia you dreamed of. It is not in the Russian dictionary."
Demetrius turned on the scoffer a glittering eye. "It will be, some day," said he, slowly.
"My friend"--Aksakoff shook the ash from his cigarette--"if you propose to edit dictionaries you must remain Dr. Demetrius--in exile."
"I gladly would," rejoined the other, heartily; "only----" His voice died away, as he looked towards Lady Jim.
The diplomatist laughed. "There is always a woman. Ah, these dear ladies, how practical they are! In their hands we are wax, which they mould after the honey is squeezed out;" he laughed again, then resumed, business-like: "You will write to my daughter and place the truth of this engagement beyond question."
"To-morrow, Ivan Aksakoff, when I am in London. And needless to say, I shall always profoundly respect Mademoiselle your daughter."
"You mean the Countess Petrovitch."
"If you can so far bend her to your ambition," retorted Demetrius. "You promise, then, to right me with the Czar?"
Aksakoff nodded and laughed cynically. "You are already Prince Constantine Demetrius, rich, honoured, and--unsympathetic." The doctor winced at the last word, but shook hands on the agreement. Lady Jim glanced across the room with Judas and his kiss in her mind. That the cap fitted her, also, she did not consider for the moment.