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 Madame Volkonsky submitted without a word. It was useless. He was always so prompt. He had no hat, nor had Madame Volkonsky any wrap around her. He called for the Russian Minister's carriage, and in a moment it came. He placed Madame Volkonsky in it, and she obeyed him silently. Her head hung down, she wept a little, and was the picture of despair.

"Now, wait for the Minister," he said to the coachman—and he sent the footman for Madame Volkonsky's wrap.

Then he went back in the house, and through the drawing-rooms until he saw Volkonsky. "You had better go at once to your wife. She is waiting in her carriage," he said.

Volkonsky did not take time even to bid his host good-night, but slipped out, Pembroke a little behind him. When they reached the carriage, Madame Volkonsky was inside weeping violently. Pembroke had not got her out a moment too soon.

Volkonsky looked at Pembroke for a moment. "Madame has not her wrap," he said. "She has a mantle of sable that cost—ah, here is the footman with it." Pembroke turned away sick at heart.

Within a week the Grand Duke's visit was over, and the Russian Legation was suddenly turned over to Ryleief. The Minister was ill, and his doctors ordered him to the south of France. The day before Madame Volkonsky left Washington, a parcel was delivered into her hands. It was a