ere is just one thing," she added, "which would break his
heart."

"And that?"

"The subject upon which you two disagree--a war between Germany and this
country."

"The Prince is an idealist," Dominey said. "Sometimes I wonder why
he was sent here, why they did not send some one of a more intriguing
character."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You agree with that great Frenchman," she observed, "that no ambassador
can remain a gentleman--politically."

"Well, I have never been a diplomat, so I cannot say," Dominey replied.

"You have many qualifications, I should think," she observed cuttingly.

"Such as?"

"You are absolutely callous, absolutely without heart or sympathy where
your work is concerned."

"I do not admit it," he protested.

"I go back to London to-morrow," she continued, "a very miserable and
unhappy woman. I take with me the letter which should have brought me
happiness. The love for which I have sacrificed my life has failed me.
Not even the whip of a royal command, not even all that I have to offer,
can give me even five seconds of happiness."

"All that I have pleaded for," Dominey reminded her earnestly, "is
delay."

"And what delay do you think," she asked, with a sudden note of passion
in her tone, "would the Leopold Von Ragastein of six years ago have
pleaded for? Delay! He found words then which would have melted an
iceberg. He found words the memory of which comes to me sometimes in the
night and which mock me. He had no country then save the paradise where
lovers walk, no ruler but a queen, and I was she. And now--"

Dominey felt a strange pang of distress. She saw the unusual softening
in his face, and her eyes lit up.

"Just for a moment," she broke off, "you were like Leopold. As a rule,
you know, you are not like him. I think that you left him somewhere in
Africa and came home in his likeness."

"Believe that for a little time," Dominey begged earnestly.

"What if it were true?" she asked abruptly. "There are times when I
do not recognise you. There are words Leopold used to use which I have
never heard from your lips. Is not West Africa the sorcerer's paradise?
Perhaps you are an imposter, and the man I love is there still, in
trouble--perhaps ill. You play the part of Everard Dominey like a very
king of actors. Perhaps before you came here you played the part of
Leopold. You are not my Leopold. Love cannot die as you would have me
believe."

"Now," he said coolly, "