ad burned his bridges; there was no drawing back
now--

He turned slowly the knob, applied a sudden pressure to the door and
entered.

A girl looked up and saw him. It was a superbly decorated salon he had
invaded. Soft-hued rugs were on the floor and draperies of cloth of gold
veiled the shadows. Betty Dalrymple had been standing at a window,
gazing out at night--only night--or the white glimmer from an electric
light that frosting the rail, made the dark darker. She appeared neither
surprised nor perturbed at the appearance of the nobleman--doubtlessly
she had been expecting that intrusion. He stopped short, his dark eyes
gleaming. It was enough for the moment just to look at her. Place and
circumstance seemed forgotten; the spirit of an old ancestor--one of the
great khans--looked out in his gaze. Passion and anger alternated on his
features; when she regarded him like that he longed to crush her to him;
instead, now, he continued to stand motionless.

"Pardon me," he could say it with a faint smile. Then threw out a hand.
"Ah, you are beautiful!" All that was oriental in him seemed to vibrate
in the words.

Betty Dalrymple's answer was calculated to dispel illusion and glamour.
"Don't you think we can dispense with superfluous words?" Her voice was
as ice. "Under the circumstances," she added, full mistress of herself.

His glance wavered, again concentrated on her, slender, warm-hued as an
houri in the ivory and gold palace of one of the old khans--but an houri
with disconcerting straightness of gaze, and crisp matter-of-fact
directness of utterance. "You are cruel; you have always been," he said.
"I offer you all--everything--my life, and you--"

"More superfluous words," said Betty Dalrymple in the same tone, the
flash of her eyes meeting the darkening gleam of his. "Put me ashore,
and as soon as may be. This farce has gone far enough."

"Farce?" he repeated.

"You have only succeeded in making yourself absurd and in placing me in
a ridiculous position. Put me ashore and--"

"Ask of me the possible--the humanly possible--" He moved slightly
nearer; her figure swayed from him.

"You are mad--mad--"

"Granted!" he said. "A Russian in love is always a madman. But it was
you who--"

"Don't!" she returned. "It is like a play--" The red lips curved.

He looked at them and breathed harder. Her words kindled anew the flame
in his breast. "A play? That is what it has been for you. A mild comedy
of flirtat