“The next dance is a Hungarian waltz, I perceive,” said Ouvaroff in a changed voice. “I am reminded by this card that a lady is waiting for me. Excuse my absence for a few minutes. I am so ugly, you see,” he added with an uneasy smile, “that when I do obtain the favour of a dance I cannot afford to miss it.”
As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just spoken were a “white lie,” as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince among the dancers.
While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff’s conduct, he saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word here and there with those to whom he was known.
Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive glance of the Asiatic.
“Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my minister,” was Wilfrid’s comment.
“Do I address Viscount Courtenay?” said the Count with a bow as he drew near to Wilfrid.
Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid had not asked for the diplomatist’s acquaintance, nor was he disposed to be over polite to an enemy of England.
But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid’s frigid manner. He sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be in common between the Czar’s representative and the eccentric young Englishman.
As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off.
“It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let fall.”