surely come to pass.

"Do you believe me?" he said again, keeping up the bravado of his light
tone, but some chord in his voice stirred oddly.

Sophy drew a long breath. She felt herself shivering, then, "Yes," she
said almost inaudibly. He continued to look at her--a strange, musing
look.

"Thank you," he said blandly. "So I have a disciple at last."

Then that passion of horror and pity broke down all conventional
restraint in Sophy.

"But _why_?" she said, in a passionate whisper. "Why? _Why?_"

He was silent just for an instant's pressure, then he answered by the
most extraordinary and appalling piece of blasphemy.

"Because," he said, "'_before Abraham was I am_.'"

XI

Sophy sat white and still, her profile towards Amaldi, playing with the
spray of orchids at her plate. Then, all at once, she realised that
Cecil was speaking louder than he had been. His words reached her
distinctly. She glanced towards him in terror. What a horrible evening!
What, what was going to happen?

What Chesney said was this:

"Russia is an epileptic, like so many of her people. She has the
inspired moment, the convulsion, the apathy. Again inspiration--again
convulsions--apathy--_e da capo_--_e da capo_."

As he uttered these words, his eyes were fixed insolently on Prince
Suberov.

Sophy saw several heads turn hastily in her husband's direction. The
faces of those near him wore a scared expression.

Suberov was a tall, impassive man of sixty-five, with a singularly
gentle face, and small, deep-set, sad grey eyes.

While every one waited, scarcely daring to glance at him, he replied,
tranquilly courteous:

"Yes ... my country is called 'Holy Russia' by us who love her. Her
sickness to us is certainly 'the sacred sickness.'"

One felt relief stir like a draught around the table. But Chesney would
not let it go at that. His eyes gleamed malevolently. He thrust out his
jaw in a way that Sophy knew well.

"_Oui_," he said, in French, which his execrable English accent rendered
more brutal. "_Oui--'cette sacree maladie'!_" His accent on the word
"_sacree_" made it sheer insult.

Suberov looked at him intently.

"I fear _monsieur_ is not feeling well this evening," he said gravely.
"I have heard that _monsieur_ has been ill. Of course an invalid's
opinions on sickness are always interesting, though not conclusive."

For a second it was as though every one at the table held his breath. A
look of fury crossed