to that so young . . . so very young. But what is hard—but you'll laugh at me—"
"Heaven forbid!" said the Duke gravely.
"Well, what is hard is, never to get a letter . . . an envelope that one opens . . . from some one who thinks about one——"
She paused, and then added gravely: "But I tell myself that it's nonsense. I have a certain amount of philosophy."
She smiled at him—an adorable child's smile.
The Duke smiled too. "A certain amount of philosophy," he said softly. "You look like a philosopher!"
As they stood looking at one another with serious eyes, almost with eyes that probed one another's souls, the drawing-room door flung open, and Germaine's harsh voice broke on their ears.
"You're getting quite impossible, Sonia!" she cried. "It's absolutely useless telling you anything. I told you particularly to pack my leather writing-case in my bag with your own hand. I happen to open a drawer, and what do I see? My leather writing-case."
"I'm sorry," said Sonia. "I was going——"
"Oh, there's no need to bother about it. I'll see after it myself," said Germaine. "But upon my word, you might be one of our guests, seeing
