You're responsible, you know." Brenda assented with a nod and a smile, as the brougham drew up and the smart tiger jumped down and opened the door.

The Prince got out, and was followed by Phadrig the Adept.

As she looked at the two men, Nitocris felt as though a wave of cold air had suddenly enveloped her whole being--body and soul.
"Niti, this is our friend, Prince Oscar Oscarovitch, whom you have been kind enough to let me invite by proxy.

Prince, this is Miss Nitocris Marmion." Of course all the world knew of Oscar Oscarovitch, the modern Skobeleff, the lineal descendant of Ivan the Terrible, the crystal-brained, steel-willed man who was to be the saviour and regenerator of half-ruined, revolution-rent Russia, but this was the first time that Nitocris had met him in her present life.

When she had returned his stately bow, she looked up and saw with a strange intuition, which somehow seemed half-reminiscent an almost perfect type of the primitive warrior through the disguise of his faultless twentieth-century attire.
He was nearly two inches over six feet, but he was so exquisitely proportioned that he looked less than his height.