By degrees it became evident that Margaret wanted to talk about Russia, and Mr. Bellingham humoured her, and gave her a good view of the situation, and told anecdotes of the Princess Dolgorouki, and drew the same distinction between Nihilists and Republicans that Count Nicholas had made an hour earlier in the same room.  Seeing she was so much interested, Mr. Bellingham took courage to ask a question that had puzzled him for some time.  He stroked his snowy beard, and hesitated slightly.

“Pardon me, if I am indiscreet, Madam,” he said at last, “but I read in the papers the other day that a nobleman of your name—­a Count Nicholas, I think—­had landed in New York, having escaped the clutches of the Petersburg police, who wanted to arrest him as a Nihilist.  Was he—­was he any relation of yours?”

“He is my brother-in-law,” said Margaret, rather startled at seeing the point to which she had led the conversation.  But she felt a strong sympathy for Mr. Bellingham, and she was glad to be able to speak on the subject to any one.  She stood so much in need of advice; and, after all, if the story was in the papers it was public property by this time.  Mr. Bellingham was a perfect diplomatist, and, being deeply interested, he had soon learned all the details of the case by heart.

“It is very distressing,” he said gravely.  But that was all.  Margaret had had some faint idea that he might offer to help her—­it was absurd, of course—­or at least that he might give her some good advice.  But that was not Mr. Bellingham’s way of doing things.  If he intended to do anything, the last thing he would think of would be to tell her of his intention.  He led the conversation away, and having rounded it neatly with a couple of anecdotes of her grandmother, he rose to go, pleading an engagement.  He really had so many appointments in a day that he seldom kept more than half of them, and his excuse was no polite invention.  He bowed himself out, and when he was gone Margaret felt as though she had lost a friend.

She wearied of the day—­so long, so hot, and so unfortunate.  She tried a book, and then she tried to write a letter, and then she tried to think again.  It seemed to her that there was so little to think about, for she had a hopeless helpless consciousness that there was nothing to be done that she could do.  She might have written to her friends in Petersburg—­of course she would do that, and make every possible representation.  But all that seemed infinitely far off, and could be done as well to-morrow as to-day.  At last Lady Victoria came back, and at sight of her Margaret resolved to confide in her likewise.  She had so much common sense, and always seemed able to get at the truth.  Therefore, in the afternoon Margaret monopolised Lady Victoria and carried her off, and they sat together with their work by the open window, and the Countess was “not at home.”