He disdained to reply.

"Really, I am disappointed, after my not having betrayed who you were to
the prince."

"Why didn't you?" he said.

She laughed. "Perhaps because I am an artist, and it seemed inartistic
to intervene--to interrupt the action at an inopportune moment--to
stultify what promised to be an unusually involved complication. When
first I saw and recognized you on the _Nevski_, it was like one of those
divine surprises of the master dramatist, M. Sardou. Really, I was
indebted for the thrill of it. Besides, had I spoken, the prince might
have tossed you overboard; he is quite capable of doing so. That, too,
would have been inartistic, would have turned a comedy of love into rank
melodrama."

Rank nonsense! Of course such a conversation could not be real. But he
cried out in the dream: "What matter if his excellency had tossed me
overboard? What good am I here?"

"To her, you mean?"

"To her, of course." Bitterly.

The vision's eyes were very bright; her plastic, rather mature form bent
nearer. He felt a cool hand at the bandage, readjusting it about his
head. That, naturally, could not be. She who had betrayed Betty
Dalrymple to the prince would not be sedulous about Mr. Heatherbloom's
injury.

"Foolish boy!" she breathed. Incongruous solicitude! "Who are you? No
common dog-tender--of that I am sure. What have you been?"

"What--" Wildly.

"There! there!" said half-soothingly that immaterial, now maternal
visitant. "Never mind."

"How is she? Where is she?" he demanded, incoherently.

"She is well, and is going to be, very soon now, the prince's bride."

"Never."

"Don't let his excellency hear you say so in that tone. He thinks you
only a detective, not an ardent, though secret wooer yourself. The
Strogareffs brook no rivals," she laughed, "and he is already like a
madman. I should tremble for your life if he dreamed--"

"Help me to help her--" he said. "It will be more than worth your while.
You did this for--"

She shook her head. "I have descended very low, indeed, but not so low
as that. Like the bravos of old"--was it she who spoke bitterly
now?--"Sonia Turgeinov is, at least, true to him who has given her the
little _douceur_. No, no; do not look to me, my young and Quixotic
friend. You have only yourself to depend upon--"

"Myself!" He felt the sharp iron cut his flesh. That seemed
indubitable--no mere fantasy of pain but pain itself.

"Let well enough alone," she advised.