“The idea is excellent,” said Eirene. “Tell me,” she added harshly, turning to Maurice, “are you willing to sign a confession of the imposture of which you have been guilty, and to entreat my pardon for your treachery?”
“I’m not going to sign anything that isn’t true,” returned Maurice. “I don’t carry all my family papers about with me, but I have them safe at home. It’s as certain that we are descended from the elder son of John Theophanis as that you are from the younger.”
Eirene raised her head disdainfully. “The comparison shows your state of mind,” she said. “You are undoubtedly labouring under a delusion, and it is only charity to see that you are kept in safety until it has passed away.”
“Oh, very well. Tell the first British Consul you come across your idea of charity, and see what he will say.”
“The British Consul would do nothing,” she said sharply. “You seem to forget that by alleging a Greek descent you have deliberately renounced your British citizenship, and placed yourself among my subjects—mine.”
“I am sorry to appear to contradict you, but when you come to think of it, isn’t it just the other way about?”
“Oh, this is too much!” cried Eirene, rising from her seat. “Am I to endure these insults—to be defied to my very face? And this from one whom I trusted!”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said M. Kirileff, seizing the opportunity to point a judicious moral. “All your friends must regret that your impatience of restraint, your love of the bizarre, led you into such a situation, but you will not be left to cope with it alone. My instructions are to inquire your wishes for the future?”
“Oh, to go anywhere, away from here!” She sank upon the divan again.
“I fear”—M. Kirileff’s tone was slightly severe—“that your Royal Highness can hardly expect to be received at Court as before, at any rate until your reputation for—shall I say eccentricity of behaviour?—has been in some degree forgotten. You would not care to remain here?”