And yet there were times when she dazzled him by a smile, or the turn of a sentence. In spite of himself, she made him feel that it was a privilege of no ordinary nature to be the friend of the Countess Olga Petrovic.
When at length he rose to go she made not the slightest effort to detain him. She was courteously polite, and that was all. He might have been the most casual stranger, to whom she used the most commonplace forms of speech. Any onlooker must have felt that this Polish or Russian Countess, whatever she might be, had simply a passing interest in this Labour Member, that she had invited him to tea out of pure whim or fancy, and that she would forget him directly he had passed the doorstep. And yet there was a subtle something in her manner as she held out her hand to him. Her words said nothing, but her eyes told him to come again.
"Must you go, Mr. Faversham? So pleased you were able to call. I am nearly always home on Thursdays."
That was all she said. But the pressure of her hand, the pleading of her eyes, the smile that made her face radiant—these somehow atoned for the coldness of her words.
"Well, I've called," thought Dick as he left the house, "and I don't intend to call again. I don't understand her; she's out of my world, and we have nothing in common."
But these were only his surface thoughts. At the back of his mind was the conviction that Olga Petrovic had an interest in him beyond the ordinary, that she thought of him as she thought of no other man. Else why that confession months before? Why did she ask him to call?
She was a wonderful creature, too. How tame and uninteresting the other women were compared with her! Her personality dominated everything, made everyone else seem commonplace.
She captivated him and fascinated him even while something told him that it was best for him that he should see nothing more of her. The mystery that surrounded her had a twofold effect on him: it made him long to know more about her even while he felt that such knowledge could bring him no joy.
But this she did. She kept him from brooding about Beatrice Stanmore, for the vision of this unsophisticated English girl was constantly haunting him, and the knowledge that his love for her was hopeless made him almost desperate. He was a young man, only just over thirty, with life all before him. Must he for ever and ever be denied of love, and the joys it might bring to his life? If she had not promised herself to Sir George Weston, all might be different. Yes, with her to help him and inspire him, he would make a position for her; he would earn enough to make a home for her. But she was not for him. She would soon be the wife of another. Why, then, should he not crush all thoughts of her, and think of this glorious woman, compared with whom Beatrice Stanmore was only as a June rosebud to a tropical flower?
A few days later he called on Olga Petrovic again. This time he spent a few minutes alone with her. Only the most commonplace things were said, and yet she puzzled him, bewildered him. One minute she was all smiles and full of subtle charm, another he felt that an unfathomable gulf lay between them.