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312 I leaned forward, startled. "What's that?" I asked sharply. "What makes you say that? What do you know anyway?"

Leontine interrupted. "Eat your ice, Ivan," said she impatiently—"it is melting," And she pushed her bell viciously.

I glanced at her and was puzzled at the sudden hardening of her face—or, I might better say, at the ferocity of her face; for there was never the least suggestion of either hardness or coarseness about the Polish girl. She could be soft and melting, or hot and fierce and passionate—dangerous as a leopardess, but she hadn't a trace of that female brutality sometimes to be found in the Anglo-Saxon.

It came into my head that they were playing with me, that Ivan's pose was a clever and consummately skilful bit of acting, that he knew nothing of Rosalie and had lied about Chu-Chu, and that the table conversation might wind up in one of two ways—a swift and silent attack, or possibly a request that for the sake of others I should withdraw my statement, since he, Ivan, was a beaten man and powerless to protect me.

What Ivan said next put me off my reckoning again.

"At this moment," said Ivan, "Chu-Chu is probably at a little country house of his, near Meudon. He has called a meeting of my malcontents and they are planning to reorganise, with Chu-Chu as chief. Things are to be run on a more consistent scheme and operators are not to be forbidden to take life as the occasion may arise. If the Countess Rosalie has taken Chu-Chu all the way out there, I would say