From the moment of the good-bye at the Sphinx it had been a humiliation
for her. Always, always, he had been victor of the situation. Had she
been ridiculously weak? What was this fate which had fallen upon her?
What had she done to draw such circumstances? Then even as she lay
there, communing sternly with herself, a thrill swept over her, as her
thoughts went back to that last passionate kiss. And her slender hands
clenched under the clothes.

"If he really loved me," she sighed, "I would face the uncertain
happiness with him. I know now he causes me emotions of which I never
dreamed and for which I would pay that price. But I have no single
proof that he does really love me. He may be playing in the same way
with Tatiane Shébanoff--and the rest." And at this picture her pride
rose in wild revolt.

Never, never! should he play with her again at least!

Then she thought of all her stupid ways, perhaps if she had been
different, not so hampered by prejudice, but natural like all these
women here, perhaps she could have made him really love her.--Ah!--if
so.

This possibility, however, brought no comfort, only increased regret.

The first thing now to be done was to restrain herself in an iron
control. To meet him casually. To announce to her godmother that she
must go home, and as soon as the visit to Moscow should be over, she
would return to England. She must not be too sudden, he would think she
was afraid. She would be just stiff and polite and serene, and show him
he was a matter of indifference to her, and that she had no intention
to be trifled with again!