Sofia shrugged, and settled back to await developments.
But there was nothing to warrant misgivings in the aspect of the dwelling before which the car presently drew up. If it wasn’t the palace Sofia had unconsciously been looking forward to, it owned a solid, dull-faced dignity that suited well the town-house of a person of quality, it measured up quite acceptably to Sofia’s notion of what was becoming to the condition of a prince in exile—who naturally would live quietly, in view of the recent revolution in Russia.
Without augmented fears, then, though still on the alert for anything that might seem questionable, and more agitated with excitement than she let him suspect, Sofia permitted Mr. Karslake to conduct her to the door.
He had barely touched the bell-button when this door opened, revealing a vista of spacious entrance-hall.
To one side stood a manservant to whom Sofia paid no attention till the sound of his name on Karslake’s tongue struck an echo from her memory. “Thanks, Nogam. Prince Victor home yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Tell him, please, when he comes in, we’re waiting in the study.”
“’Nk-you, sir.”
The servant was the man whom Karslake had met in the Café des Exiles only a few hours before. Catching Sofia’s quick, questioning glance, Nogam paused at respectful attention. And, even then, she was struck again with his fidelity to the rôle in the social system for which Life had cast him. In the café, that afternoon, he had cut a mildly incongruous figure, unpretending but alien to that atmosphere; here, in the plain evening-dress livery of his station, he blended perfectly into the picture.
Karslake gave his hat and stick to the man, then opened one wing of a great double doorway, and with a bow invited Sofia to precede him. She faltered, hazily conceiving that threshold in the guise of an inglorious Rubicon. But she had already gone too far into this adventure to draw back now without forfeiting her self-respect. With a deceptively firm step she entered a room to wonder at.