The woman nodded.
"Besides," went on the Count, "you are in a far more becoming position as the Countess Petrovic, with estates in Russia and elsewhere, than as Olga, the high priestess of a wild and irresponsible set of fanatics."
"You have changed your views about those same fanatics," responded the woman rather sullenly.
"Have I? Who knows?" was the Count's smiling and enigmatical reply. "But I did think they might have served my purpose."
"What purpose?"
"Dear lady, even to you I cannot disclose that. Besides, what does it matter?"
"Because I would like to know. Because—because——" There she broke off suddenly.
"Because through it the man Faversham crossed your path, eh?" and the smile did not leave his face.
"You knew that Bolshevism would fail in England," cried the woman. "You knew that the whole genius of the race was against it. Why then did you try to drag—Faversham into it? Why did you tell me to dazzle him with its possibilities, to get him involved in it to such a degree that he would be compromised?"
"Ah, why?"