The Count looked thoughtful.
"I thought I had captivated him when that German man brought him to the East End of London," she went on. "I saw that I bewildered him—dazzled him. He seemed fascinated by my picture of what he could become. His imagination was on fire, and I could see that he was almost held in thrall by the thought that he could be a kind of uncrowned king, while I would be his queen. He promised to come to me again, but he didn't. Then I went to see him at his hotel, and if ever a woman tempted a man, I tempted him. I know I am beautiful—know that men are willing to become slaves to me. And I pleaded with him. I offered to be his wife, and I almost got him. I saw him yielding to me. Then suddenly he turned from me. A servant brought him a card, and he almost told me to go."
"You saw who these visitors were?"
"Yes; an old man and a slip of a girl. I do not know who they were. Since he has been living in London, I have watched my opportunities, and he has been here. I have flattered him; I have piqued his curiosity. I have been coy and reserved, and I have tried to dazzle him by smiles, by hand pressures, and by shy suggestions of love. But I cannot pierce his armour."
"And you will give up? You will confess defeat?"
The woman's eyes flashed with a new light. "You little know me if you think that," she cried angrily. "At one time I—yes, I, Olga Petrovic—thought I loved him. I confessed it to you, but now—now——"
"Yes, now?" questioned the Count eagerly.
"Now that thought is not to be considered. I will conquer him; I will make him my slave. He shall be willing to sacrifice name, position, future, anything, everything for me—everything."
"Only, up to now, you've failed."
"Because, because—oh, Romanoff, I don't understand. What is he? Only just a commonplace sort of man—a man vulnerable at a hundred points—and yet I cannot reach him."