the pride ever humbled.

Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months of
pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, where his
Colonel, who had received secret information concerning him, had treated
him like a gentleman, and had employed him as regimental interpreter,
for he spoke French and German and a smattering of Indian tongues.
During his lonely hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he
would be called upon to administer a vast fortune.... He laid the pipe
on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin in his
hands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of his life! His
father would have opened to him a boundless career; he would have seen
the world under the guidance of a master hand. And here he was to-day,
the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a
wanderer from place to place.

The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memories
which it would arouse would be too bitter.... The shade of Beethoven
touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin. But he was
thinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the hands
which evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.

Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still much good
humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to time
what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor devil! he thought; could
he resist this woman whose accomplishments were so varied that at one
moment she could overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some
strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could entertain for
her nothing but admiration, what hope was there for the Englishman? What
a woman! She savored of three hundred years off. To plan by herself, to
arrange the minutest detail, and above all to wait patiently! Patience
has never been the attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both
patience and power.

The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she arose and
said, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: "For pity's
sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad."

The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned forward.
Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed silently. He was in
Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant
ring.

"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.

Immediately a se