"Prince Milaslavski," Tamara heard an acquaintance say . . . while one of his friends called him "Gritzko." The name fell pleasantly on her ears -- "Gritzko" . . . Why was he such a wretch as to humiliate her so? She felt horribly small. She ought never to have let him speak to her, when viewing the Sphinx. She was being thoroughly punished for her unconventionality now

When the music started, she found herself dancing with a fierce Russian Count in green and silver. He held her tightly, exclaiming how beautifully she danced. They stopped, when quite out of breath, where the screened windows half-hid the poor ladies of the harem who watched the throng from their safe retreat.

The Count and Tamara bowed. Then a voice said close to her ear:

"May I, too, have the honor of a turn, Madame?" -- and she looked up into the eyes of the Prince.