“Don’t speak of Russia!” she pleaded.  “I hate to hear it mentioned.  I was so happy.  It is painful to remember.”

Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed to one of gay delight.  She nodded and smiled toward a tall man who was evidently looking for her, and took no notice of the Frenchman’s apologies.

“Who is that?” asked the young man.  “I see him everywhere lately.”

“A mere English gentleman, Mr. Paul Howard Alexis,” replied the lady.

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows.  He knew better.  This was no plain English gentleman.  He bowed and took his leave.  M. de Chauxville of the French Embassy was watching every movement, every change of expression, from across the room.

In evening dress the man whom we last saw on the platform of the railway station at Tver did not look so unmistakably English.  It was more evident that he had inherited certain characteristics from his Russian mother—­notably, his great height, a physical advantage enjoyed by many aristocratic Russian families.  His hair was fair and inclined to curl, and there the foreign suggestion suddenly ceased.  His face had the quiet concentration, the unobtrusive self-absorption which one sees more strongly marked in English faces than in any others.  His manner of moving through the well-dressed crowd somewhat belied the tan of his skin.  Here was an out-of-door, athletic youth, who knew how to move in drawing-rooms—­a big man who did not look much too large for his surroundings.  It was evident that he did not know many people, and also that he was indifferent to his loss.  He had come to see Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and that lady was not insensible to the fact.

To prove this she diverged from the path of veracity, as is the way of some women.

“I did not expect to see you here,” she said.

“You told me you were coming,” he answered simply.  The inference would have been enough for some women, but not for Etta Sydney Bamborough.

“Well, is that a reason why you should attend a diplomatic soiree, and force yourself to bow and smirk to a number of white-handed little dandies whom you despise?”

“The best reason,” he answered quietly, with an honesty which somehow touched her as nothing else had touched this beautiful woman since she had become aware of her beauty.

“Then you think it worth the bowing and the smirking?” she asked, looking past him with innocent eyes.  She made an imperceptible little movement toward him as if she expected him to whisper.  She was of that school.  But he was not.  His was not the sort of mind to conceive any thought that required whispering.  Some persons in fact went so far as to say that he was hopelessly dull, that he had no subtlety of thought, no brightness, no conversation.  These persons were no doubt ladies upon whom he had failed to lavish the exceedingly small change of compliment.

“It is worth that and more,” he replied, with his ready smile.  “After all, bowing and smirking come very easily.  One soon gets accustomed to it.”