Now people whose intellect is of a low class are not disturbed with visions of all that there is to be known, nor with a foolish desire to appear to know it.  On the other hand, they are perfectly capable of understanding what is honourable or dishonourable, mean or generous, and they are very tenacious of these principles, believing that in the letter of the law is salvation.  They are not vain of qualities and powers not theirs; and, consequently, when they promise, they promise what they are able to perform.  Occasionally such characters appear in “society,”—­rare creatures, in whom a pernicious education has not spoiled the simplicity and honesty which is their only virtue.  They fall naturally into the position of confessors to the community, for the community requires confessors of some sort.  In them confides the hardened sinner bursting with evil deeds and the accumulation of petty naughtiness.  To them comes the beardless ass, simpering from his first adventure, and generally “afraid he has compromised” the mature woman of the world, whom he has elected to serve, desiring to know what he ought to do about it.  To them, too, comes sometimes the real sufferer with his or her little tale of woe, hesitatingly told, half hinted, hoping to be wholly understood.  They are good people, these social confessors, though they seldom give much advice.  Nevertheless, it is such a help to tell one’s story and hear how it sounds!

Lady Victoria was not a woman of surpassing intellect; perhaps she had no intellect at all.  She belonged to the confessors above referred to.  She was the soul of honour, of faith, and of secrecy.  People were always making confidences to her, and they always felt the better for it—­though she herself could not imagine why.  And so even Margaret came and told her troubles.  Only, as Margaret was really intelligent, she did not hesitate or make any fuss about telling, when once she had made up her mind.  The story was, indeed, public property by this time, and Lady Victoria was sure to know it all before long from other people.  When Margaret had finished, she laid down her work and looked out of the window, waiting.

“I need not tell you I am sorry,” said Lady Victoria.  “You know that, my dear.  But what will you do?  It will be so very awkward for you, you know.”

“I hardly can tell yet—­what would you do in my place?”

“Let me see,” said the English girl.  “What would I do?  You must have a Russian minister here somewhere.  I think I would send for him, if I were you.”

“But it takes so long—­so dreadfully long, to get anything done in that way,” said Margaret.  And they discussed the point in a desultory fashion.  Of course Lady Victoria’s suggestion was the simplest and most direct one.  She was quite certain that Margaret would get her rights very soon.