“I don’t know whether I am much better off than you,” said an English lady, Mrs. Bridgetower.  “I certainly have a trained nurse to look after me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she pleases.  She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always depressed.  She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night.  I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives me the benefit of her brightness.  Poor thing!  She does feel the cold very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching neat the stove, with her arms almost clasping it!  When she is not talking of her own looks, all she says is:  ‘Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!’ or, ‘Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?’ or, ’The cold is eating into the very marrow of my bones.’  At first she used to read to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to hear her.  Why don’t I send her home?  Well, my husband will not hear of me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances.  And perhaps I might.”

“I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fraeulein Mueller has,” said little Fraeulein Oberhof.  “She came to look after me the other day when I was alone.  She has the kindest way about her.  But when my sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fraeulein Sophie Mueller with me.  She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any one else to do anything either.  Still, she is very good to other people.  She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine—­that is the hour when I am just sleepy—­and she stamps about the room, and makes cornflour for the old Polish lady.  Then off she goes, taking with her the cornflour together with my sleep.  Once I complained, but she said I was irritable.  You can’t think how teasing it is to hear the noise of the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy.  You say to yourself, ’Will that cornflour never be made?  It seems to take centuries.”

“One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself,” said M. Lichinsky.  “But at least, Fraeulein, your sister does not quarrel with every one.  You must be grateful for that mercy!”

Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room.  She looked very hot and excited.  She was M. Lichinsky’s mother.  She spoke, with a whirlwind of Polish words.  It is sometimes difficult to know when these people are angry and when they are pleased.  But there was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky.  She was always angry.  Her son rose from the sofa and followed her to the door.  Then he turned round to his confederates, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Another quarrel!” he said hopelessly.

CHAPTER XV.

WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING.

“YOU may have talent for other things,” Robert Allitsen said one day to Bernardine, “but you certainly have no talent for photography.  You have not made the slightest progress.”