pass away some idle moments in what to her was only a pastime. I ranged myself on Portia’s side immediately, feeling that my niece was being urged by some motive bigger than mere feminine jealousy, and that she would make this clear to me in good time.
“Portia, my dear, you do just what you think is best. I can’t say I’m especially attracted to the princess. And,” I added, my heart suddenly warming pleasantly at the recollection, “I like the way Owen calls me Aunt Sophie!”
Portia came close to my side, reached out her free hand, and gave my arm a caress that meant more than words. I felt that she understood what a strong ally she had in Sophie Delorme.
By the time we reached the grounds of the princess’ house, the dogs had quieted down a little from the exuberant spirits they had shown during the first part of our walk, when they had pulled at their leashes wildly. It may have been fancy, but I felt that Boris showed distinct reluctance to enter the grounds of the Russian’s house, grounds full of deep, dark shadows from the shrubbery that would be so beautiful in summer but that now seemed terrifyingly like hideous, ragged-garbed skeletons in the dim light of the stars.
“Auntie,” whispered my niece guardedly, although we were far enough from the house to have spoken loudly without having been overheard, “will you take Andrei’s leash, please, and wait for me here? I’m going into the grounds and I can see that the dogs won’t be pleased to accompany me.”
“I don’t want you to go alone,” I whispered back, suddenly oppressed with a disinclination to remain there myself alone, where every bush seemed a skulking beast ready to spring out upon me. I was ashamed, but I preferred going with Portia into I knew not what, to remaining alone.
“Well, we can try it with the dogs, but I’m afraid they won’t come, Aunt Sophie.”
We experienced no particular trouble, however. Keeping close to the hedge that bordered the path to the rear of the house, Portia and I walked cautiously along with Boris and Andrei held tightly and close to us, until we had reached the house. There were lights in front, and I felt Portia’s hand drawing me in the direction of the drawing room windows. We managed to get behind a great scrawny bush that scattered the light streaming from one as yet uncurtained French window. (I have since wondered at the carelessness of the princess that night in exposing her intimate home life to the curious eye of the midnight prowler. At any rate, the following day curtains hung at all the windows and were drawn at dusk.)
The scene within the great drawing room was a lively one. The princess, glittering and shimmering in a gown of some clinging green metallic cloth, reclined on a heap of what appeared to be rich rugs thrown over piled cushions. A band of gold set with diamonds flashed about her head and from it hung a square diamond by a link, so that it flashed with dazzling rainbow splendor as she turned her head from side to side. Her garments clung about her as if they had been molded to her supple form and were indeed a part of her own personality.
She was evidently directing the arrangement of draperies and furniture in her new home. As she directed, long white arms and pointed fingers glittering with flashing gems, the chauffeur and a bent old woman hurried hither and thither to carry out her orders.
The chauffeur was a handsome fellow in a heavy way, and apparently deeply attached to his mistress, to
