“You are a disgrace to your sex,” he shouted wildly, “a disgrace to the noble house of Zouroff, to the name you bear.”
The young Princess looked at him calmly and steadfastly, with her clear gaze. He was a wild beast at the moment—she saw that; also gathered that he had been drinking heavily. Wild beasts are sometimes tamed by the eye. She never took her glance off him.
“Of what do you accuse me?” she asked in cold and cutting accents. “In what way have I, of all the members of our family, disgraced the house of Zouroff?”
The Prince spluttered forth his accusations. “You have disgraced yourself by falling in love with a strolling player, that mountebank, Corsini.”
Of course he was still master enough of himself not to reveal all he knew, or thought he knew.
The Princess drew herself up haughtily. It was not the first time she had encountered her brother in this mood.
“I don’t think you know what you are talking about, Boris; I can see your condition very plainly. Signor Corsini is not a strolling player—that description applies to the destitute members of the theatrical profession. Corsini is a musician, an artist, and the Director of the Imperial Opera. Think of some other expression that will vent your rage and spite, but don’t call him ‘a strolling player.’”
“But whatever he is, you love him,” thundered the Prince, now fairly consumed with rage.
The young Princess kept her temper, her tone was as cutting as before.