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Huntingtower

Prologue
The girl came into the room with a darting 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 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 romped with long ago in
Paris would grow into such a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite
pure colouring of hair and skin, the charming young arrogance of the eyes--this was
beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her virginal fineness and her dress, which
was the tint 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, frosty music. "The days are far too short.
I grudge the hours when I must sleep. They say it is sad for me to make my debut in a
time of war. But the world is very kind to me, and after all it is a victorious war for our
Russia. And listen to me, 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 chamber 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 cedar floor. The
walls were of a green marble veined like malachite, the ceiling was of darker marble
inlaid with white intaglios. Scattered everywhere were tables and cabinets laden with
celadon china, and carved jade, and ivories, and shimmering Persian and Rhodian
vessels. In all the room there was scarcely anything of metal and no touch of gilding or
bright colour. The light came from green alabaster censers, and the place swam in a cold
green radiance like some cavern below the sea. The air was warm and scented, and
though it was very quiet there, a hum of voices and the strains of dance music drifted to it
from the pillared corridor in which could be seen the glare of lights from the great
ballroom beyond.
The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering round the mouth and eyes. The
warm room had given him a high colour, which increased his air of fragility. He felt a
little choked by the place, which seemed to him for both body and mind a hot-house,
though he knew very well that the Nirski Palace on this gala evening was in no way
typical of the land or its masters. Only a week ago he had been eating black bread with its
owner in a hut on the Volhynian front.
"You have become amazing, Saskia," he said. "I won't pay my old playfellow
compliments; besides, you must be tired of them. I wish you happiness all the day long
like a fairy-tale Princess. But a crock like me can't do much to help you to it. The service
seems to be the wrong way round, for here you are wasting your time talking to me."
She put her hand on his. "Poor Quentin! Is the leg very bad?"
He laughed. "O, no. It's mending famously. I'll be able to get about without a stick in
another month, and then you've got to teach me all the new dances."
The jigging music of a two-step floated down the corridor. It made the young man's brow
contract, for it brought to him a vision of dead faces in the gloom of a November dusk.
He had once had a friend who used to whistle that air, and he had seen him die in the
 
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