"Vladimir Vassilyitch, I expected you.—Have you enrolled yourself under Zaremba yet, for proper instruction?"
De Windt laughed. "Your Highness should get his Majesty and my Colonel to claim less time of me!"
"Bah, Monsieur Impertinence! The yacht club's green tables see more of you than your Colonel, as we all know.—Whom have you brought me?"
"My brother officer and good friend, Lieutenant Ivan Mikhailovitch Gregoriev, lately of Moscow."
Her Highness started and straightened. "Gregoriev!—The son of Gregoriev of Moscow, here!—Are you aware, sir—" Suddenly she stopped, her gaze meeting that of Ivan, and noting the deathly pallor of his face, the sudden fire in his eyes. With an effort, she restrained herself, and presently observed, in a different tone:
"I have heard of your father, Lieutenant.—Are you a musician?"
A shred of color crept back into Ivan's lips; but his voice was unsteady as he said, in a low, rather rough voice: "I ask the pardon of your Royal Highness, and beg leave to go.—The fault and the mistake of my presence are entirely mine!"
At these words, de Windt turned towards him, sharply; but their hostess interrupted his first syllable:
"You have made no mistake, sir. Vladimir Vassilyitch is responsible for all that he does. You are, I presume, a lover of music?"
"Indeed yes, your Highness!"