allow me, Mr. Ware, to present you
to my mother?"

She led the young man forward, and he found himself bowing to a stout
lady, who at one time must have been beautiful, but in whom age had
destroyed a great amount of her good looks. She was darker than her
daughter, and had a languid, indolent air, which seemed to account for
her stoutness. Evidently she never took exercise. Her face was still
beautiful, and she had the most glorious pair of dark eyes. Her hair was
silvery, and contrasted strangely with her swart face. One would have
thought that she had African blood in her. She wore a yellow dress
trimmed with black lace, and many jewels twinkled on her neck and arms
and in her hair. Her tastes, like her appearance, were evidently
barbaric. In this cold, misty island she looked like some gorgeous
tropical bird astray.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Ware," she said in soft, languid tones, yet
with a kind of rough burr; "my daughter has often talked of you." Her
English was very good, and there was little trace of a foreign accent.
Yet the occasional lisp and the frequent roughness added a piquancy to
her tones. Even at her age--and she was considerably over fifty--she was
undeniably a fascinating woman: in her youth she must have been a
goddess both for looks and charm. Olga was regal and charming, but her
mother excelled her. Giles found himself becoming quite enchanted with
this Cleopatra of the West.

"You have been long in England, Princess?" he asked.

"But a week. I came to see Olga. She would have me come, although I
dislike travelling. But I am fond of Olga."

"It is more than my father is," said Olga, with a shrug; "he would not
come. I suppose he thinks that I have disgraced him."

"My dear child," reproved her mother, "you know what your father's
opinion is about this wild life you lead."

"A very hard-working life," retorted her daughter; "singing is not
easy. For the rest, I assure you I am respectable."

"It is not the life for a Karacsay, my dear. If you would only come back
to Vienna and marry the man your father----"

"I choose for myself when I marry," flashed out Olga, with a glance at
the uncomfortable Giles. "Count Taroc can take another wife."

The Princess, seeing that Giles found this conversation somewhat trying,
refrained from further remark. She shrugged her ample shoulders, and
sipped her coffee, which she complained was bad. "You do not know how to
make coffee here," she said, unf