The lady made no response.
"I may call it settled, then?" He still held her hand. "If you would rather not go, Anastasia, I will find some one else—but I had hoped——"
She drew away her hand. "You are right," she said, "no one knows you so well as myself. And all I know about you is that you are always contriving some devilry. What is it this time? But you will not tell me. You never tell me."
"Anastasia, you do me an injustice. This is a purely political step."
"As you will. Call it what you please. I am your servant—you know that—your handmaid—in all things—save one. Not for any other woman, Ludovick—not for any other—unfortunate—woman will I lift my little finger. Should you betray me in this respect——"
He laughed. "A woman? And in that company? Rest easy, dear child. Be jealous as much as you please but not with such a cause."
He touched her cheek with his finger: he stooped and kissed her hand and withdrew.
The Lady Anastasia stood awhile where he left her. The joy had gone out of her heart: she trembled: she was seized with a foreboding of evil. She threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in her hands, and forgetful of paste and patch and paint she suffered the murderous tears to destroy that work of art—her finished face.