It was twenty-four hours later. The night of the Ardácheff ball had
come. The glorious house made the background of a festive scene. The
company waited all round the galleries for the arrival of the Grand
Dukes and the foreign King and Queen.

And Tamara stood by her godmother's side at the top of the stairs, a
strange excitement flooding her veins.

Since the night before they had heard nothing of the Prince. And as
each guest came in view, past the splendid footmen grouped like statues
on every six steps, both women watched with quickening pulses for one
insouciant Cossack face.

The Royalties arrived in a gorgeous train, and yet neither Gritzko nor
Count Varishkine.

It might mean nothing, but it was curious all the same. The opening
contre-danse was in full swing, and still they never came, and
by the time of the second valse after it Tamara was a prey to a vague
fear. While the Princess' uneasiness grew more than vague.

Tamara could not enjoy herself. She talked at random, she made her
partners continually promenade through the salons, and her eyes
constantly scanned the doors.

The immense ballroom, quite two stories high, presented a brilliant
sight with its stately decorations of the time of Alexander I. And all
the magnificent jewels and uniforms, and the flowers. Somehow a riot of
roses takes an extra charm when outside the thermometer measures zero.
And no one would have believed, looking at this dignified throng, that
they could be the same people who could frolic wildly at a Bohemian
supper.