take his place in the
world of diplomacy. It was his political inheritance which had deadened
them, the awful debt of blood that he still owed to the enemies of his
race. He had found the spirit of patriotism dead within him, and in that
day he had turned his back upon his country. Since then he had carried
his great name through the pleasure places of the world, always
upholding its dignity, perhaps, but never adding to its luster.

He was forty-one years old that day, and the few words which John had
spoken to him barely an hour ago had made him realize that there was
only one thing in life that he desired. The sight of his treasures
merely soothed his vanity. It left empty and unsatisfied his fuller and
deeper desire of living. He told himself that his time had come. Others
of his race had paid a great price for the things they had coveted in
life. He, too, must follow their example.

He was in Louise's drawing-room when she returned--Louise, with hair and
cheeks a little damp, but with a wonderful light in her eyes and with
footsteps that seemed to fall upon air.

"Some tea and a bath this moment, Aline!" she called out, as she ran
lightly up the stairs. "Never mind about dinner, I am so late. I will
have some toast. Be quick!"

"_Madame_--" Aline began.

"Don't bother me about anything now," Louise interrupted. "I will throw
my things off while you get the bath ready."

She stepped into her little room, throwing off her cloak as she entered.
Then she stopped short, almost upon the threshold. The prince had risen
to his feet.

"Eugene!"

He came toward her. Even as he stooped to kiss her fingers, his eyes
seemed to take in her disheveled condition, the little patches of color
in her cheeks, the radiant happiness which shone in her eyes.

"I am not an unwelcome intruder, I hope," he said. "But how wet you
are!"

The fingers which he released fell nervelessly to her side. She stood
looking at him as if confronted with a sudden nightmare. It was as if
this new-found life were being slowly drained from her veins.

"You are overtired," he murmured, leading her with solicitude toward an
easy chair. "One would imagine, from your appearance, that I was the
bearer of some terrible tidings. Let me assure you that it is not so."

He spoke with his usual deliberation, but she seemed powerless to
recover herself. She was still dazed and white. She sank into the chair
and looked at him.

"Nothing, I trust," he we