"We shall see!" cried the woman triumphantly.
"Tell me why you wish this? Suppose I—I love him really, suppose I am willing to become his slave? Suppose I want to settle down to—to quiet domestic happiness, to loving motherhood? Suppose I want to be good—and to pray?"
The Count's eyes burnt red with anger as she spoke, while his features were contorted as if with pain.
"Stop that," he almost snarled. "I know you, Olga Petrovic, I know too much about you. Besides, the Bolshevists have taken your estates, and—but why argue? You love luxury, don't you? Love beautiful dresses, love your life of ease, love what money can buy, money that you can't get without me?"
"You must tell me all I need to know," she answered with sullen submissiveness.
"Yes."
"Then I will go."
"And you will not fail?"
"No, I will not fail."