of her disgrace, Alexandrine Nikitenko, buoyed up by her unbreakable
pride, had gathered from her blackened fields no small harvest of
broad-mindedness, philosophy, and courage. The Alexandrine of old,
acknowledged priestess of frivolity, was not a tenth so well worth
knowing as the faded, jaded woman, long since numbed to the pain of
slights and insults, who had, through the long years, persistently made
her dwelling-place in the city of her downfall. She was no saint:
affected no martyr's pose: had never, since her departure from the
convent within whose walls she left her babe, sought the consolation of
religion. Child of the world, in a sense, she must always be; but she
was also a woman, softened far more than she herself dreamed. Cynicism
was the cloak of her defence; but Ivan, early in their acquaintance,
unconsciously folded it back, and beheld the beautiful robe beneath.
Thenceforward, throughout the last months of his stay in Italy, their
friendship increased by leaps and bounds. The woman began to feel that
at last the mysterious Arbiter of human fate had lifted His iron hand,
and was looking upon her with forgiveness written in merciful eyes.

On the very day after his first dramatic meeting with the Princess, Ivan
had written to Nathalie, in Petersburg, to gather, at first-hand, the
details of the Russian part of the Nikitenko drama. Princess Feodoreff
replied with her habitual promptness; but the story contained in her
letter was rather disappointing. Apparently Florence knew as much as
Petersburg. The deserted husband, who had climbed far up the ladder of
diplomacy, was celebrated for his morose reticence about his personal
affairs. Nathalie's words were almost an exact repetition of those of
the little Contessa. Ivan was obliged to wait until, one day, he learned
the whole story from the lips of its heroine herself, who told it to him
unasked.

Early in their friendship, as soon, indeed, as she perceived that he
ranged himself absolutely with her, Ivan learned how scrupulously
honest Madame Nikitenko was. With manlike exactness she gave him to
understand that friendship with him grown purely out of liking would be
a godsend to her; but of kindness from compassion she would have none.
Cut and gibe had little power to sting. Pity infuriated her. Gallantly
she was fighting a disease which every day gained a little ground; and
which she well knew to be mortal. But her very maid, the one person whom
she de