he obeyed. The Princess reached out her
hand and struck her on the cheek.

"Give me that letter," she commanded.

Jeanne shrank back. The suddenness of the blow, its indignity, and
these new relations which it seemed designed to indicate, bewildered
her. She stood passive while the Princess took the letter from her
fingers and tore it into pieces. Then she unlocked the door.

"Go to your room, Jeanne," she ordered.

Jeanne heard the sound of people ascending the stairs, and this time
she did not hesitate. The Princess drew a little breath and looked at
the fragments of the letter in the grate. It was victory of a sort, but
she realized very well that the ultimate issue was more doubtful than
ever. In her room Jeanne would have time for reflection. If she chose
she might easily decide upon the one step which would be irretrievable.

CHAPTER V

The Count de Brensault was a small man, with a large pale face. There
were puffy little bags under his eyes, from which the colour had
departed. His hair, though skilfully arranged, was very thin at the
top, and his figure had the lumpiness of the man who has never known
any sort of athletic training. He looked a dozen years older than his
age, which was in reality thirty-five, and for the last ten years he
had been a constant though cautious devotee of every form of
dissipation. Jeanne, who sat by his side at dinner-time, found herself
looking at him more than once in a sort of fascinated wonder. Was it
really possible that any one could believe her capable of marrying such
a creature! There were eight people at dinner, in none of whom she was
in the least interested. The Count de Brensault talked a good deal, and
very loudly. He spoke of his horses and his dogs and his motor cars,
but he omitted to say that he had ceased to ride his horses, and that
he never drove his motor car. Jeanne listened to him in quiet contempt,
and the Princess fidgetted in her chair. The man ought to know that
this was not the way to impress a child fresh from boarding-school!

"You seem," Jeanne remarked, after listening to him almost in silence
for a long time, "to give most of your time to sports. Do you play
polo?"

He shook his head.

"I am too heavy," he said, "and the game, it is a little dangerous."

"Do you hunt?" she asked.

"No!" he admitted. "In Belgium we do not hunt."

"Do you race with your motor cars?"

"I entered one," he answered, "for the Prix des Ardennes. It