When night came and she was alone again, her thoughts made a hell; she
could not sleep; she paced her room. If Gritzko should not return on
Tuesday. If she should never see him again. What--what would happen--
if--she--too--like poor Mary Gibson--
Next day--the Tuesday--at about eleven o'clock, a servant in the
Milasl?vski livery arrived with a letter, a stiff-looking, large,
sealed letter. She had never seen Gritzko's writing before and she
looked at it critically as she tremblingly broke it open.
It was written from Milasl?v the day they had left Moscow. It was short
and to the point, and her eyes dilated as she read.
It began thus:
"To Madame Loraine,
"Madame,--I write to ask you graciously to accord me the honor of your
hand. If you will grant me this favor I will endeavor to make you
happy.
"I have the honor, Madame, to remain,
"Your humble and devoted serviteur,
"Gregoir[Footnote 1: "Gritzko" is the diminutive of "Gregoir."]
Milasl?vski."
And as once before in her life Tamara's knees gave way under her, and
she sat down hurriedly on the bed--all power of thought had left her.
"The messenger waits, ma'am," her maid said, stolidly, from the door.
Then she pulled herself together and went to the writing-table. Her
hand trembled, but she steadied it, and wrote her answer.
"To Prince Milasl?vski,--
"Monsieur,--I have no choice.
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