The girl came into the room with a darting¹ movement like a swallow, looked round her with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran across the polished floor to where a young man sat on a sofa with one leg laid along it.

 

"I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, pronouncing the name with a pretty staccato. "You must be so lonely not dancing, so I will sit with you. What shall we talk about?"

 

The young man did not answer at once, for his gaze was held by her face. He had never dreamed that the gawky and rather plain little girl whom he had romped² with long ago in Paris would grow into such a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite³ pure colouring of hair and skin, the charming young arrogance⁴ of the eyes—this was beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her virginal fineness and her dress, which was the tint⁵ of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice and flame.

 

"About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are you happy now that you are a grown-up lady?"

 

"Happy!" Her voice had a thrill in it like music,[Pg 12] frosty music. "The days are far too short. I grudge⁶ the hours when I must sleep. They say it is sad for me to make my début in a time of war. But the world is very kind to me, and after all it is a victorious⁷ war for our Russia. And listen to this, Quentin. To-morrow I am to be allowed to begin nursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you think of that?"

 

The time was January, 1916, and the place a room in the great Nirski Palace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets, entered that curious chamber⁸ where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of the chief of his famous treasures. It was notable for its lack of drapery and upholstering—only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs on the

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