after a moment, she summoned them to her, with a slight gesture. Then,
breaking off her argument with Ivan's future biographer, she held out a
hand for de Windt to salute.

"Vladimir Vassilyitch, I expected you.--Have you enrolled yourself under
Zaremba yet, for proper instruction?"

De Windt laughed. "Your Highness should get his Majesty and my Colonel
to claim less time of me!"

"Bah, Monsieur Impertinence! The yacht club's green tables see more of
you than your Colonel, as we all know.--Whom have you brought me?"

"My brother officer and good friend, Lieutenant Ivan Mikhailovitch
Gregoriev, lately of Moscow."

Her Highness started and straightened. "Gregoriev!--The son of Gregoriev
of Moscow, here!--Are you aware, sir--" Suddenly she stopped, her gaze
meeting that of Ivan, and noting the deathly pallor of his face, the
sudden fire in his eyes. With an effort, she restrained herself, and
presently observed, in a different tone:

"I have heard of your father, Lieutenant.--Are you a musician?"

A shred of color crept back into Ivan's lips; but his voice was unsteady
as he said, in a low, rather rough voice: "I ask the pardon of your
Royal Highness, and beg leave to go.--The fault and the mistake of my
presence are entirely mine!"

At these words, de Windt turned towards him, sharply; but their hostess
interrupted his first syllable:

"You have made no mistake, sir. Vladimir Vassilyitch is responsible for
all that he does. You are, I presume, a lover of music?"

"Indeed yes, your Highness!"

"You play?"

Ivan, glancing towards the piano, encountered the keen look of the
world's master-pianist. "I have played at home, as a boy, for--my
mother," he answered, the last word uttered very low.

A brief silence followed his speech. The little scene was unusual, and
had by this time caught the attention of the room. Ivan felt the hostile
fire of many eyes fixed on him, and perceived dimly what they had
resolved:--that he was to be tried, here, as others had been before
him--rather cruelly.

Finally the Duchess herself glanced towards the piano. "Anton, have you
marked your expression?"

"That is finished.--But I have not as yet suggested a fingering for the
cadenza."

"No matter.--Ivan Gregoriev, Monsieur Rubinstein has brought us a new
manuscript--a barcarolle, you said, Anton?--finished to-day, and brought
here to be played to me. He writes a clear hand. Sit down, then, and let
us hear you interpret it."