"Olga," he said, "you don't mean to say that you have failed? He has been in London some time now, and as I happen to know, he has been here often. Has not the fish leaped to the bait? If not, what is amiss? What?—Olga Petrovic, who has turned the heads of men in half the capitals of Europe, and who has never failed to make them her slaves, fail to captivate this yokel! I can't believe it."
There was sullen anger in her eyes, and at that moment years seemed to have been added to her life.
"Beaten!" went on the Count, with a laugh—"Olga Petrovic beaten! That is news indeed."
"I don't understand," said the woman. "Something always seems to stand between us. He seems to fear me—seems to be fighting against me."
"And you have tried all your wiles?"
"Listen, Count Romanoff, or whatever your name may be," and Olga Petrovic's voice was hoarse. "Tell me what you want me to do with that man."
"Do? Make him your slave. Make him grovel at your feet as you have made others. Make him willing to sell his soul to possess you. Weave your net around him. Glamour him with your fiendish beauty. Play upon his hopes and desires until he is yours."
"Why should I?"
"Because it is my will—because I command you."
"And what if I have done all that and failed?"