“Margareta Ivanowna”—­Margaret’s father’s name had been John—­“Nicolai Alexandrewitch is here,” said Vladimir, who seemed greatly surprised.  His geographical studies having been purely experimental, the sudden appearance of a Russian gentleman led him to suppose his mistress had landed in some outlying part of Russia, or at least of Europe.  So she bade the old servant conduct the gentleman to her sitting-room and ask him to wait.  She was not long in finishing her toilet.  Before she left the room a servant of the hotel brought another box of flowers from Mr. Barker.  Clementine cut the string and opened the pasteboard shell.  Margaret glanced indifferently at the profusion of roses and pink pond-lilies—­a rare variety only found in two places in America, on Long Island and near Boston—­and having looked, she turned to go.

Clementine held up two or three flowers, as if to try the effect of them on Margaret’s dress.

“Madame would she not put some flowers in her dress?”

No.  Madame would not.  Madame detested flowers.  Whereat the intelligent Clementine carefully examined the name of the sender, inscribed on a card which lay in the top of the box.  Mr. Barker knew better than to send flowers anonymously.  He wanted all the credit he could get.  The Countess swept out of the room.

At the door of the sitting-room she was met by a young man, who bent low to kiss her extended hand, and greeted her with a manner which was respectful indeed, but which showed that he felt himself perfectly at ease in her society.

Nicolai Alexandrewitch, whom we will call simply Count Nicholas, was the only brother of Margaret’s dead husband.  Like Alexis, he had been a soldier in a guard regiment; Alexis had been killed at Plevna, and Nicholas had succeeded to the title and the estates, from which, however, a considerable allowance was paid to the Countess as a jointure.

Nicholas was a handsome man of five or six and twenty, of middle height, swarthy complexion, and compact figure.  His beard was very black, and he wore it in a pointed shape.  His eyes were small and deep-set, but full of intelligence.  He had all the manner and appearance of a man of gentle birth, but there was something more; an indescribable, undefinable air that hung about him.  Many Russians have it, and the French have embodied the idea it conveys in their proverb that if you scratch a Russian you will find the Tartar.  It is rather a trait of Orientalism in the blood, and it is to be noticed as much in Servians, Bulgarians, Roumanians, and even Hungarians, as in Russians.  It is the peculiarity of most of these races that under certain circumstances, if thoroughly roused, they will go to any length, with a scorn of consequence which seems to the Western mind both barbarous and incomprehensible.  Margaret had always liked him.  He was wild; but he was a courteous gentleman, and could always be depended upon.

“Mon cher,” said Margaret, “I need not tell you I am enchanted to see you, but what is the meaning of the things you wrote me this morning?  Are you really in trouble?”