"My father was a Russian," responded Marsa, abruptly, her voice suddenly
becoming harsh and cutting.

"A Russian?"

"Yes, a Russian," she repeated, emphasizing the word with a sort of dull
anger. "My mother alone was a Tzigana, and my mother's beauty was part
of the spoils of those who butchered your soldiers?"

In the uproar of conversation, which became more animated with the
dessert, she could not tell him of the sorrows of her life; and yet,
he guessed there was some sad story in the life of the young girl,
and almost implored her to speak, stopping just at the limit where
sympathy might change into indiscretion.

"I beg your pardon," he said, as she was silent, with a dark shadow
overspreading her face. "I have no right to know your life simply
because you are so well acquainted with mine."

"Oh! you!" she said, with a sad smile; "your life is history; mine is
drama, melodrama even. There is a great difference."

"Pardon my presumption!"

"Oh! I will willingly tell you of my life, if the existence of a useless
being like myself can interest you; but not here in the noise of this
dinner. It would be absurd," with a change of tone, "to mingle tears
with champagne. By-and-bye! By-and-bye!"

She made an evident effort to appear gay, like the pretty women who were