I am afraid that for the moment I lost my self-possession.  I had gone through so much during the last few hours, and this woman spoke with such confidence ­so quietly, and yet with such absolute conviction ­that I felt the barriers which I had built about myself crumbling away.  I answered her lamely, and without conviction.

“My secret!  I do not know what you mean.  I have no secret!”

The black feathers fluttered backwards and forwards once more.  She regarded me still with the same quiet smile.

“You love my niece, Mr. Greatson,” she said.

“Madame,” I answered, “you are jesting!”

“Indeed I am not,” she declared.  “I have made a statement which is perfectly true.”

“I deny it!” I exclaimed hoarsely.

“You can deny it as much as you like, if you think it worth while to perjure yourself,” she replied coolly.  “The truth remains.  I have had a good deal of experience in such matters.  You love Isobel, and I am not at all sure that Isobel does not love you.”

“Madame,” I protested, “such statements are absurd.  I am no longer a young man.  I am thirty-four years old.  I have no longer any thought of marriage.  Isobel is no more than a child.  I was nearly her present age when she was born.  The whole idea, as I trust you will see, is ridiculous.”

The Archduchess regarded me still with unchanged face.

“Your protestations, Mr. Greatson,” she said, “amuse, but utterly fail to convince me.”

“Let us drop the subject, then,” I said hastily.  “At least, if you persist in your hallucination, I hope you will believe this.  I have never spoken a word of what could be called love-making to the child in my life.”

“I believe you implicitly,” she answered promptly.  “I believe that I know and can appreciate your position.  Let me tell you that I honour you for it.”

“Madame,” I murmured, “you are very good.  Let us now abandon the subject.”

“By no means,” she answered.  “On the contrary, I should like to discuss it with you fully.”

“Madame!” I exclaimed.

“Let us suppose for a moment,” she went on calmly, “that I am correct, that you really love Isobel, but that your peculiar position has imposed upon your sense of honour the necessity for silence.  Well, your guardianship of her may now be considered to have ended.  From to-night it has passed into my hands.  Still, you would say the difference between your positions is immeasurable.  You are, I doubt not, a gentleman by birth, but Isobel comes from one of the ancient and noble families of the world, and might almost expect to share a throne with the man whom she elects to marry.  It is true, in effect, Mr. Greatson, that you are of different worlds.”

“Madame,” I answered, “why do you trouble to demonstrate such obvious facts?  They are incontestable.  But supposing for a moment that your surmises concerning myself were true, you will understand that they are painful for me to listen to.”

“You must have patience, Mr. Greatson,” she said quietly.  “At present I am feeling my way through my thoughts.  There is rash blood in Isobel’s veins, and I should like her life to be happier than her mother’s.  She is unconventional and a lover of freedom.  The etiquette of our Court at Illghera will chafe her continually.  I wonder, Mr. Greatson, if she would not be happier ­married to some one of humbler birth, perhaps, but who can give her the sort of life she desires.”

I was for a moment dumb with astonishment.  Apart from the amazement of the whole thing, the Archduchess was not in the least the sort of person to be seriously interested in the abstract question of Isobel’s happiness.  At least, I should not have supposed her capable of it.  I imagine that she must have read my thoughts, for after a searching glance at me she continued: 

“You doubt my disinterestedness, Mr. Greatson.  Perhaps you are right.  I wish the child well, but there is also this fact to be considered.  Isobel married to an English gentleman such as, say, yourself, would be no longer a serious rival to my daughter in the affections of her grandfather.”

Then indeed I began to understand.  What a woman of resource!  She watched me closely behind the feathers of her fan.

“Come,” she said, “this time my plot is an innocent one, and it is for Isobel’s happiness as well as for my daughter’s benefit.  Speak to her now.  Marry her at once, here in Paris, and I will give her for dowry twenty thousand pounds!”

I ground my heel into the carpet, and I was grateful for those long black feathers which waved gracefully in front of my face.  For I was tempted ­sorely tempted.  The woman’s words rang like mad music in my brain.  Speak to her!  Why not?  It was the great joy of the world which waited for me to pluck it.  Why not?  I was not an old man, the child was fond of me, a single word of compliance, and I might step into my kingdom.  Oh, the rapture of it, the wonderful joy of taking her hands in mine, of dropping once and for ever the mask from my face, the gag from my tongue!  A rush of wild thoughts turned me dizzy.  My secret was no longer a secret at all.  The Archduchess leaned a little closer to me, and whispered behind those fluttering feathers ­

“You are a very wonderful person, Mr. Greatson, that you have kept silence so long.  The necessity for it has passed.  The child loves you.  I am sure of it.”

But my moment of weakness was over.  I had a sudden vision of Feurgeres, standing on the stage, listening with bowed head to the thunder of applause, but with his eyes turned always to the darkened box, with its lonely bouquet of pink roses ­lonely to all save him, who alone saw the hand which held them ­of Feurgeres in his sanctuary, bending lovingly over that chair, empty to all save him, Feurgeres, with that smile of unearthly happiness upon his lips ­calm, debonair and steadfast.  This was the man who had trusted me.  I raised my head.

“Madame,” I said quietly, “what you suggest is impossible.”

She stared at me in incredulous astonishment.

“But I do not understand,” she exclaimed weakly.  “You agree, surely?”

I shook my head.

“On the contrary, Madame,” I said, “I beg that you will not allude further to the matter.”

The Archduchess muttered something in German to herself which I did not understand.  Perhaps it was just as well.

“You will vouchsafe me,” she begged, speaking very slowly, and keeping her eyes fixed on me, “some reason for your refusal?”

“I will give you two,” I answered.  “First, it is contrary to the spirit of my promise to Monsieur Feurgeres.”

Her lip curled.

“Well?”

“Secondly,” I continued, “I should be taking a dishonourable advantage of my position with regard to Isobel.  She is very grateful to me, and she would very likely mistake her sentiments if I were to speak to her as you suggest.  She is too young to know what love is.  She has met no young men of her own rank, she does not understand in the least what sort of position is in store for her.”

“These are your reasons, then?”

“I venture to think that they are sufficient ones, Madame,” I answered.

The Archduchess rose.

“We shall need a new Cervantes,” she remarked, “to do justice to the Englishman of to-day.  I shall keep my word, Mr. Greatson, as regards Isobel, and I can promise you this.  If gaiety and eligible suitors, and the luxury of her new life are not sufficient to stifle any sentimental follies she may be nursing just now, I will not rest till I find other means.  Adelaide’s future is arranged.  I will set myself to make Isobel’s equally brilliant.  I will make her the beauty of Europe.  She shall forget in a month the squalid days of her life with you and your friends in an attic.”

“So long as Isobel is happy,” I answered, “my mission is accomplished, and I am content.”

“You are a fool and a liar!” she answered contemptuously.  “You will love her all your days, and you know it.  You will grow to curse the memory of this hour in which you threw away the only chance you will ever have of winning her.  The only chance, mind, I will answer for that.  I wish you good-evening, Mr. Greatson.  You are excused.  Isobel, as you are aware, remains here.  You will find her in the music-room with Adelaide.  Go and make your adieux, and make them quickly.  You will be interrupted in three minutes.”

She swept away from me with only the slightest inclination of her head.  I made my way to the music-room, where Isobel and her cousin were sitting together.  Directly I entered, the latter, with a little nod of curious meaning to me, rose and left us alone.  I held out my hands.

“Isobel, dear,” I said, “this must be ­our farewell, then ­for a time!”

She placed her hands in mine.  They were as cold as ice.  Her cheeks were white, her eyes seemed fastened upon mine.  All the while her bosom was heaving convulsively, but she said nothing.

“I can only wish you what Arthur and Allan have already wished you,” I said, “happiness!  You have every chance of it, dear.  You surely deserve it, for you brightened up our dull lives so that we can, no one of us, ever forget you.  Think of us sometimes.  Good-bye!”

I stooped and kissed her lightly on the cheek.  But suddenly her arms were wound around my neck.  With a strength which was amazing she held me to her.

“Arnold!” she sobbed.  “Oh, Arnold!”

Her lips were upon mine, and in another second I should have been lost, for my arms would have been around her.  The door opened and closed.  We heard the jingling of sequins, the sweep of a silken train.  The Archduchess had entered.  Isobel’s arms fell from my neck, but her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes like stars.

“You ­are going?” she pleaded.

“I am going,” I answered huskily.

The Archduchess came down the room, humming a light tune.

“So the dread farewell is over, then!” she exclaimed, with light good humour.  “Come, child, no red eyes.  Remember, a Waldenburg weeps only twice in her life.  Once more, good-night, Mr. Greatson.”

I had reached the door.  Isobel was standing still with outstretched arms.  The Archduchess glided between us ­and I went.

The next morning I travelled unseen by the Riviera express, to which the saloon of the Archduchess had been attached, all the way to Illghera.  I saw her driven with the others to the villa.

Two days afterwards, from a hill overlooking the grounds, I saw an old gentleman in a pony chaise preceded by two footmen in dark green livery.  Adelaide walked on one side, and Isobel on the other.  That night I left Illghera for England.