Etta was leaning forward in the luxurious chair, staring with haggard eyes into the fire. The flames leaped up and gleamed on her pale face, in her deep eyes.
“I suppose,” she said, without looking at him, “that you will not believe me when I tell you that I hate the man. I knew nothing of what you refer to as happening last week; his attempt to murder you, I mean. You are a prince, and all-powerful in your own province. Can you not throw him into prison and keep him there? Such things are done in Russia. He is more dangerous than you think. Please do it—please—”
Paul looked at her with hard, unresponsive eyes. Lives depended on his answer.
“I did not come here to discuss Claude de Chauxville,” he said, “but you, and our future.”
Etta drew herself up as one under the lash, and waited with set teeth.
“I propose,” he said, in a final voice which made it no proposition at all, “that you go home to England at once with—your cousin. This country is not safe for you. The house in London will be at your disposal. I will make a suitable settlement on you, sufficient to live in accordance with your title and position. I must ask you to remember that the name you bear has hitherto been an unsullied one. We have been proud of our princesses—up to now. In case of any trouble reaching you from outside sources connected with this country, I should like you to remember that you are under my protection and that of Steinmetz. Either of us will be glad at any time to consider any appeal for assistance that you may think fit to make. You will always be the Princess Howard Alexis.”
Etta gave a sudden laugh.
“Oh, yes,” she said, and her face was strangely red, “I shall still be the Princess Alexis.”
“With sufficient money to keep up the position,” he went on, with the cruel irony of a slow-spoken man.
A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta’s face—the smile of one who is in agony and will not shriek.