thought—and his blood raced madly through his veins. Adieus were said, and Paul found himself again in his taximeter cab. In a state of mind quite different from that which had obsessed him on his way to the dinner, he arrived once more at the hôtel. "Ah! these mad English!" Paul's chauffeur said to himself as he pocketed an extravagant pourboire. "We see too few of them! Milord Rosbif must have been having some famous old wine over[171] in the Faubourg St. Germain, is it not so?" he asked himself. [171] But it was the more exalted intoxication of the soul that sent Paul up the steps with the elastic stride of youth. Who was she? Paul did not know, even now. Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had said nothing of her family or her home. Beyond the fact that she was Russian, and a friend of the Dalmatian Ambassador's wife—herself a Slav—Paul was still ignorant. Indeed, for all he knew, she might be some poor relation—lack of fortune was the only possible reason he could ascribe for her being unmarried. Beautiful and attractive women, of good family—if they were rich—did not wander over the Continent long without husbands. Well—that mattered nothing.[172] Thank heaven, he was not bound by any necessity of fortune. [172] Before he switched off his light that night Paul took from one of his boxes a small flat object of red morocco inlaid with gold. He lifted a tiny lid and there, through wide-set and strangely fascinating eyes a lady looked at him. It was the most amazing miniature Paul had ever seen. And the face depicted there with some unknown master's consummate skill—how often had it proved for him the only consolation he could find in the whole world. His eyes dimmed as they conveyed to him the image of his still beloved Imperatorskoye—he pressed the bauble to his lips. Ah! God! the cold glass! How different from her melting kiss! Not easily did he control his emotions. Of late years he seldom opened the por[173]trait because of the almost overwhelming rush of memories it always brought to him. [173] "There is a strange resemblance," he mused, after he had carried the miniature where the light shone full upon it. Was it the strong predominance of the Russian type which stamped alike the features of his dead Queen and the living lady he had
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