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“In America is not affection regarded as a possible basis of marriage, M. Denver?” asked Helga; and I turned with a smile to her.

“My kinswoman”—I made the slip intentionally and then corrected it—“the Duchess Stephanie is no longer so fascinating as in her youth, mademoiselle. I am only dealing with facts.”

“M. Denver has no wish to insult me or the Duchess, I am sure,” said Boreski, a suggestion of anger in his tone.

“Do I understand then that you are in love with the Duchess?”

“That is a point which, with all deference, I will not discuss,” he returned firmly; but despite his firm tone I thought I could discern evidence that I had struck home.

“M. Boreski is irrevocably pledged to the Duchess,” said Helga, “and in honour he could not draw back.”

“The Emperor would find means to meet that difficulty,” said I. “But be it so. I have come with the written consent to the marriage;” and I took out the papers which Prince Kalkov had given me, glanced at them and laid them on the table.

Boreski’s face brightened. Then I added casually—