s to dare feel a little happy and safe, one isn't going to be
found out. For instance, when my husband wanted a villa at Cap Martin.
Once, before I knew we would be coming here, I told him that I'd never
been to the Riviera. It was necessary to tell him that. But, Mary, I had
been. It makes me sick when I think what a short time ago it was. I
came to Monte Carlo with--_him_, and we stopped for weeks at a big
hotel. Every day and all day we were in the Casino. Afterward we went to
Russia, and it was in Russia he left me--in St. Petersburg. Often I go
back there in dreams, and to Monte Carlo too. I suppose you _knew_ about
me, always--you and--Peter?"

"Neither of us knew much. But I know all I want to know--unless you feel
there's anything it would do you good to tell."

"It does me a little good to be able to speak out to some one for the
first time in years, now the worst is over, and I haven't to be afraid
of you. If you could dream what I went through to-day! Mary, are you
sure--sure of yourself--that you won't give me away?"

"Very, very sure," Mary answered steadily. "I think it would have been
better if you'd told the Prince before you married him, and then you'd
have nothing to fear now, but----"

"He wouldn't have married me. One of my great attractions in his eyes
was--what I have not. You don't know that family yet, Mary. I think the
brothers are a good deal alike in some ways, though Angelo is more of a
saint than Vanno. They adore purity in women. I think they both have a
sort of pitying horror for women who aren't--innocent."

Mary was silent. She had reason to believe that the Princess was right.

"And I couldn't give him up," Marie went on. "It was too much even for
God to expect. It was such a beautiful romance--the first true romance
in my life. It seemed to be recreating me. I almost felt as if his love
would _make_ me worthy if I could only take and keep it. It was a
dreadful risk, but--I dared it, and I'd do it again, if I had it to do,
even if I paid by losing my soul. I used to think at first that perhaps
when we'd been married a long time, and I was sure of his love, I might
tell him--a little, not everything. But now I know that I never, never
can. It would be a thousand times worse than before, if he found out. It
would mean my death, that's all. I couldn't look into his eyes, his
dear, beautiful eyes that adore me, that I adore. You haven't seen him
yet. But you know Vanno's eyes, and what