y his rug,
rose to his feet.

"Madame la Duchesse permits me to remind her of my existence?" he said,
bowing low. "It is some years since we met, but I had the honor of a
dance at the Palace in Madrid."

She held out her hand at once, yet somehow Peter felt sure that she was
thankful for her veil. Her voice was pleasant, and her air the air of a
great lady. She spoke French with the soft, sibilant intonation of the
Spaniard.

"I remember the occasion perfectly, Marquis," she admitted. "Your sister
and I once shared a villa in Mentone."

"I am flattered by your recollection, Duchesse," Sogrange murmured.

"It is a great surprise to meet with you here, though," she continued.
"I did not see you at Cherbourg or on the train."

"I motored from Paris," Sogrange explained, "and arrived, contrary to my
custom, I must confess, somewhat early. Will you permit that I
introduce an acquaintance, whom I have been fortunate enough to find on
board--Monsieur le Baron de Grost--Madame la Duchesse della Nermino."

Peter was graciously received and the conversation dealt, for a few
moments, with the usual banalities of the voyage. Then followed the
business of settling the Duchesse in her place. When she was really
installed, and surrounded with all the paraphernalia of a great and
fanciful lady, including a handful of long cigarettes, she raised
for the first time her veil. Peter, who was at the moment engaged in
conversation with her, was a little shocked by the result. Her features
were worn, her face dead-white, with many signs of the ravages wrought
by the constant use of cosmetics. Only her eyes had retained something
of their former splendor. These latter were almost violet in color,
deep-set, with dark rims, and were sufficient almost in themselves
to make one forget for a moment the less prepossessing details of her
appearance. A small library of books was by her side, but after a
while she no longer pretended any interest in them. She was a born
conversationalist, a creature of her country entirely and absolutely
feminine, to whom the subtle and flattering deference of the other sex
was the breath of life itself. Peter burned his homage upon her altar
with a craft which amounted to genius. In less than half an hour,
Madame la Duchesse was looking many years younger. The vague look
of apprehension had passed from her face. Their voices had sunk to a
confidential undertone, punctuated often by the music of her laughter.