He brought together his hands. "Was it just a 'little bit' when at Homburg you danced with me nearly every time at the grand duchess' ball? Sapristi! I have not forgotten. Was it only a 'little bit' when you let me ride with you at Pau—those wild steeplechases!—or permitted me to follow you to Madrid, Nice, elsewhere?—wherever caprice took you?"
"I asked you not to—"
"But with a sparkle in your eyes—a challenge—"
"I knew you for a nobleman; I thought you a gentleman," said Betty
Dalrymple spiritedly.
Prince Boris made a savage gesture. "You thought—" He broke off. "I will tell you what you thought: That after amusing yourself with me you could say, 'Va-t-en!' with a wave of the hand. As if I were a clod like those we once had under us! American girls would make serfs of their admirers. Their men," contemptuously, "are fools where their women are concerned. You dismiss them; they walk away meekly. Another comes. Voila!" He snapped his fingers. "The game goes on."
A spark appeared in her eyes. "Don't you think you are slightly insulting?" she asked in a low tense tone.
"Is it not the truth? And more"—with a harsh laugh—"I am even told that in your wonderful country the rejected suitor—mon Dieu!—often acts as best man at the wedding—that the body-guard on the holy occasion may be composed of a sad but sentimental phalanx from the army of the refused. But with us Russians these matters are different. We can not thus lightly control affairs of the heart; they control us, and—those who flirt, as you call it, must pay. The code of our honor demands it—"
"Your honor?" It was Betty Dalrymple who laughed now.
"You find that—me—very diverting?" slowly. "But you will learn this is no jest."
She disdained to answer and started toward a side door.