Part 18 (2/2)

”Good-night, Madame--sleep well,” he calmly said.

But Tamara, trembling with mad emotion, rushed quickly to her room.

CHAPTER XII

In life there comes sometimes a tidal wave in the ebb of which all old landmarks are washed out. And so it was with Tamara. She had fallen into bed half dead with fatigue and emotion, but when she woke the sickly gray light of a Russian winter mid-day pouring into her room, and saw her maid's stolid face, back rushed the events of the night, and she drew in her breath with almost a hiss. Yes, nothing could ever be the same again. ”Leave me, Johnson,” she said, ”I am too tired, I cannot get up yet.”

And the respectful maid crept from the room.

Then she lay back in her pillows and forced herself to face the position, and review what she had done, and what she must now do.

First of all, she loved Gritzko, that she could no longer argue with herself about. Secondly, she was an English lady, and could not let herself be kissed by a man whose habit it was to play with whom he chose, and then pa.s.s on. She was free, and he was free, it followed his caressing then--divine as it had been--was an absolute insult. If he wanted her so much he should have asked her to marry him. He had not done so, therefore the only thing which remained for her to do, was to go away. The sooner the better.

Then she thought of all the past.

From the moment of the good-bye at the Sphinx it had been a humiliation for her. Always, always, he had been victor of the situation. Had she been ridiculously weak? What was this fate which had fallen upon her?

What had she done to draw such circ.u.mstances? Then even as she lay there, communing sternly with herself, a thrill swept over her, as her thoughts went back to that last pa.s.sionate kiss. And her slender hands clenched under the clothes.

”If he really loved me,” she sighed, ”I would face the uncertain happiness with him. I know now he causes me emotions of which I never dreamed and for which I would pay that price. But I have no single proof that he does really love me. He may be playing in the same way with Tatiane Shebanoff--and the rest.” And at this picture her pride rose in wild revolt.

Never, never! should he play with her again at least!

Then she thought of all her stupid ways, perhaps if she had been different, not so hampered by prejudice, but natural like all these women here, perhaps she could have made him really love her.--Ah!--if so.

This possibility, however, brought no comfort, only increased regret.

The first thing now to be done was to restrain herself in an iron control. To meet him casually. To announce to her G.o.dmother that she must go home, and as soon as the visit to Moscow should be over, she would return to England. She must not be too sudden, he would think she was afraid. She would be just stiff and polite and serene, and show him he was a matter of indifference to her, and that she had no intention to be trifled with again!

At last, aching in mind and body, she lay still. Meanwhile, below in the blue salon, the Princess Ardacheff was conversing with Stephen Strong.

”Yes, mon ami,” she was saying. ”You must come--we go in a week--the day after my ball, to show Tamara Moscow, and from there to spend a night at Milaslav. Olga and Sonia and her husband and the Englishman, and Serge Grekoff and Valonne are coming, and it will be quite amusing.”

”Think of the travelling and my old bones!” And Stephen Strong smiled.

”But since it is your wish, dear Princess, of course I must come.”

They were old and very intimate friends these two, and with him the Princess was accustomed to talk over most of her plans.

He got up and lit a cigarette, then he walked across the room and came back again, while his hostess surveyed him with surprise. At last he sat down.

”Vera, tell me the truth,” he said. ”How are things going? I confess last night gave me qualms.”

The Princess gazed at him inquiringly.

”Why qualms?”

<script>