“Aha!  Ce bon Steinmetz!” cried Vassili, with less formality, holding out his hand with frank and boyish good humor.

“Aha!  Ce cher Vassili!” returned Steinmetz, taking the hand.

“It is good of you, M. le Prince, and you, madame, to honor us in our small house,” said the marquise in a guttural voice such as one might expect from within ruby velvet and amethysts.  Thereafter she subsided into silence and obscurity so far as the evening was concerned and the present historian is interested.

“So,” said Vassili, with a comprehensive bow to all his guests—­“so you are bound for Russia.  But I envy you—­I envy you.  You know Russia, Mme. la Princesse?”

Etta met his veiled gaze calmly.

“A little,” she replied.

There was no sign of recognition in his eyes now, nor pallor on her face.

“A beautiful country, but the rest of Europe does not believe it.  And the estate of the prince is one of the vastest, if not the most beautiful.  It is a sporting estate, is it not, prince?”

“Essentially so,” replied Paul.  “Bears, wolves, deer, besides, of course, black game, capercailzie, ptarmigan—­every thing one could desire.”

“Speaking as a sportsman,” suggested Vassili gravely.

“Speaking as a sportsman.”

“Of course—­” Vassili paused, and with a little gesture of the hand included Steinmetz in the conversation.  It may have been that he preferred to have him talking than watching.  “Of course, like all great Russian landholders, you have your troubles with the people, though you are not, strictly speaking, within the famine district.”

“Not quite; we are not starving, but we are hungry,” said Steinmetz bluntly.

Vassili laughed, and shook a gold eye-glass chidingly.

“Ah, my friend, your old pernicious habit of calling a spade a spade!  It is unfortunate that they should hunger a little, but what will you?  They must learn to be provident, to work harder and drink less.  With such people experience is the only taskmaster possible.  It is useless talking to them.  It is dangerous to pauperize them.  Besides, the accounts that one reads in the newspapers are manifestly absurd and exaggerated.  You must not, mademoiselle,” he said, turning courteously to Maggie, “you must not believe all you are told about Russia.”

“I do not,” replied Maggie, with an honest smile which completely baffled M. Vassili.  He had not had much to do with people who smiled honestly.

“Vrai!” he said, with grave emphasis; “I am not joking.  It is a matter of the strictest fact that fiction has for the moment fixed its fancy upon my country—­just as it has upon the East End of your London.  Mon Dieu! what a lot of harm fiction with a purpose can do!”

“But we do not take our facts from fiction in England,” said Maggie.

“Nor,” put in Steinmetz, with his blandest smile, “do we allow fiction to affect our facts.”