In his mind's eye he saw a crowded assembly hall, a large stage rather dimly lighted and a little figure that suddenly appeared in the centre of it. He saw her rise on her toes, smile a wonderful smile that seemed to grip the hearts of the fashionable audience and then glide into such a dance as the nymphs must trip as the first faint shafts of dawn warn them that their nightly revels are over. Anna Petrowa!
After a few minutes the prince stepped back into the room where the conference had been held and Varden turned toward his friend.
"Come here, Fenton," he said. "Mam'selle, permit me to present our latest acquisition, Mr Fenton from Canada. Fenton, this is Mam'selle Anna Petrowa."
Fenton bowed, and the Little Person, for as such Fenton had unconsciously pigeon-holed her in his mind, smiled. The smile brought back more vivid recollections of her triumph of that evening when he had watched her interpret divine music with her flying feet.
"I saw Mademoiselle Petrowa on her tour in our country," said Fenton. "That was three years ago and it need hardly be added that I recognised her."
The dancer looked up at him and smiled again. She had relaxed from the serious attitude maintained during her conversation with Peter and Varden, and did not seem at all adverse to the prospect of winning admiration from this big stranger.
"I like your Can—ada," she said, speaking English with musical limitations. "Some day I go back. Then perhaps I meet Mistaire Fenton again?"
"I trust our next meeting won't be so long deferred as that," said Fenton heartily. "I'm expecting to stay here in Ironia for some time—or until the little matter in hand is settled. I've enlisted myself as general assistant to Varden."
"And he's plunged right into the thickest of it already," put in Varden. "He hasn't been in Ironia twenty-four hours yet and he's already stumbled in on a secret meeting of the Society of Crossed Swords, dodged half a dozen bullets, insulted Miridoff to his face and made love to—some of our fairest ladies."
"I believe anything of Mistaire Fenton," said Mademoiselle Petrowa, "and especially that which you say last. But have care, Mistaire Fenton, these belles of Ironia—perhaps they aim their deadly glances more true than the men can shoot."