she felt a slight tug at the bottom of her skirt,
and at the same time a black coat was making profuse apologies: it was
Monsieur Nanteuil:

"I am in despair, Princess!" cried the banker. "But no one is quite
responsible for his movements in such a crush!... I am very much afraid
that I have stepped on the muslin of your ravishing toilette and have
slightly torn it!"

The Princess protested that it did not matter in the least, and the
banker moved away, bowing low and pouring out apologies and regrets. As
soon as he had left her the Princess showed her annoyance: how could she
lead the cotillion with this tear in her dress, slight though it might
be--and the cotillion would begin in less than half an hour! Then she
remembered that her fiance had led her, on her arrival, to a little
drawing-room, quite away from the reception rooms at the end of the
gallery, that she might leave her cloak there, saying:

"Dear Princess, I have prepared this boudoir for you, and _you only_."

Sonia decided to retire to this boudoir at once and repair the damage to
her dress. As she passed the cloak-room on her way a maid offered her
services. The Princess refused them. If she could not have Nadine, she
preferred to manage for herself, besides, she saw that two pins,
concealed in the silk muslin, would put her dress to rights; and a touch
of powder to her cheeks would bring her colour down to a becoming tint.

She was considerably amused at the veritable arsenal of flasks and boxes
of perfumes which Thomery, as became an attentive lover, had placed
there in her honour: the little boudoir had been transformed into a
comfortable ladies' dressing-room. Everything was provided, down to a
glass of sugar and water, down to a little phial of alcohol and mint!

Sonia opened a powder box; then, like all the women of her race, having
a passion for perfumes, she took up a scent sprayer and lavishly
sprinkled her throat and the lower part of her face with what was
labelled, "essence of violets."

The Princess may have suffered from the intense heat of the ball-room,
and required rest without realising it, for she felt slightly faint, a
little sick--almost a desire to sleep.... She slipped down on to a low
divan, which occupied a corner of the room: she drew deep breaths,
breaking in the perfume, a sweet rather strange scent, from the
sprayer.

"This scent is sickly," she thought. "If only I had some
eau-de-Cologne!"

Without rising, for she