“What was the baron saying?” she asked, drawing her aside; “he was talking about me, I know, for he was looking straight at me for two or three minutes.”
“You only fancied so,” answered Olga, dryly; “he does not think of you at all any more.”
“Ah! I wish I could be sure of it. Tell me the truth, dear. Is it so?”
“Your anxiety, Margaret, is not very delicate, allow me to say. You think that, in spite of your severity to him, he still adores you.”
“Very well, why not?” asked Margaret, resolving to pique her companion for the sake of getting at the truth; “perhaps I shall succeed in supplanting you, in despite of myself, exactly by being severe!”
A flash of wounded vanity gleamed in the eyes of the pretty Russian.
“Margaret,” she said, “you want war, and you shall have it. Here, take back your present! You gave me a handsome bracelet, but I don’t want it any longer. Here is a ring that is much handsomer.”
She drew a box from her pocket, which she opened; it contained two ornaments—Margaret’s bracelet and the baron’s ring.
“The black diamond!” cried Margaret, shrinking back in terror. “What! are you not afraid to touch it?”
But before Olga could reply, she recovered herself: