"I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, pronouncing the
name with a pretty staccato. "You must be lonely not dancing, so I
will sit with you. What shall we talk about?"

The young man did not answer at once, for his gaze was held by her
face. He had never dreamed that the gawky and rather plain little
girl whom he had romped with long ago in Paris would grow into such
a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite pure
colouring of hair and skin, the charming young arrogance of the
eyes--this was beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation.
Her virginal fineness and her dress, which was the tint of pale
fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice and flame.

"About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are you happy now that
you are a grown-up lady?"

"Happy!" Her voice had a thrill in it like music, frosty music.
"The days are far too short. I grudge the hours when I must sleep.
They say it is sad for me to make my debut in a time of war.
But the world is very kind to me, and after all it is a victorious
war for our Russia. And listen to me, Quentin. To-morrow I am to
be allowed to begin nursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you
think of that?"

The time was January 1916, and the place a room in the great
Nirski Palace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets,
entered that curious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of
the chief of his famous treasures. It was notable for its lack of
drapery and upholstering--only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs
on the cedar floor. The walls were of a green marble veined like