"I should imagine you could act any part," replied the Doctor,
blandly. "The role of love-making comes easily to most men."

The Princess looked at him as he spoke and smiled. The jewelled
scarab, set as a brooch on her bosom, flashed luridly in the moon,
and in her black eyes there was a similar lurid gleam.

"Come and talk to me," she said, laying her hand on his arm; "I am
tired, and the conversation of one's ball-room partners is very
banal. Monsieur Gervase would like me to dance all night, I
imagine; but I am too lazy. I leave such energy to Lady Fulkeward
and to all the English misses and madams. I love indolence."

"Most Russian women do, I think," observed the Doctor.

She laughed.

"But I am not Russian!"

"I know. I never thought you were," he returned composedly; "but
everyone in the hotel has come to the conclusion that you are!"

"They are all wrong! What can I do to put them right?" she
inquired with a fascinating little upward movement of her
eyebrows.

"Nothing! Leave them in their ignorance. I shall not enlighten
them, though I know your nationality."