Sara observed him with irritation. There was, however, so much of the exotic about the man, as to render him attractive, even to her. Tall, well—if slimly—built; in manner graceful—"silken" was the designation that occurred to her—there could be no question as to the potency of his personality: a potency, by the way, from whose spell, she had learned in various ways throughout the evening, Anne was not entirely aloof. It was perfectly clear to Sara, that with Armitage, strong and clever in a wholesome masculine way, Anne was the light-hearted, mischievous, pure-minded girl—his ideal of American young womanhood. But now she caught the other note of her character—an untrue note, but none the less positive—and the other look in her eyes. Her voice was deeper, more womanly, more surcharged with underlying things, as she spoke to the Russian, and Sara could see she was breathing more rapidly.
"I have been waiting to see you, Miss Wellington," he was saying. "I have waited so long." There was a note of pathos in his voice.
"Is it important—now?" asked Anne, and her friend tugged at her sleeve. "I am very tired and sleepy."
"For a few moments, that is all," persisted the Prince gently. "Is it too much?"
Sara, inwardly raging, detected the subtle appeal which this man, so versed apparently in the emotions of womanhood, was making to the inherent maternal, protective, sympathetic instincts of the girl, who, now they were aroused, was smiling patiently.
"Very well, Prince Koltsoff. Don't bother to wait, Sara. Good-night."
"Such a day of weariness, Miss Wellington,", said the Prince, as he followed Anne to a bench running along the foot of the staircase. "One of my men,—calf-head,—was arrested in Boston."
"Arrested! Really! What had he been doing?"
"Nothing, I assure you, save trying to leave this bestial country. He had been of service to me in Newport and elsewhere. I was worried. I am worried. He was allowed to go. But they took valuable papers concerning Austria from him. How can I get them? Am I undone?" Koltsoff raised his eyes. "How can I say? Steinberg at Boston is in Maine. And so—" Koltsoff tossed his hand in the air—"I have spent," he at last continued, "more than twenty thousand roubles on the matter. I have spent five thousand roubles on the dumbhead, Yeasky, who has not the brains or courage of a mouse. I am discouraged." He caught her hand, pressed it to his forehead, and released it. "But I oppress you with my diplomatic cares," he murmured. "It has been the first time I ever burdened a woman with them. You—you are different, because you are of the few gifted to bear, to solve them."
Anne made no reply.