“You do not understand,” she explained earnestly.  “In Russia it was the aristocracy who oppressed the people, shamefully and malevolently.  In England it is the bourgeoisie who rule the country and stand in the light of Labour.  It is the middleman, the profiteer, the new capitalist here who has become an ugly and a dominant power.  Labour has the means by which to assert itself and to claim its rights, but has never possessed the leaders or the training.  That has been the subject of my lectures over here from the beginning.  I want to teach the people how to crush the middleman.  I want to show them how to discover and to utilise their strength.”

“Is not that a little dangerous?” he enquired.  “You might easily produce a state of chaos.”

“For a time, perhaps,” she admitted, “but never for long.  You see, the British have one transcendental quality; they possess common sense.  They are not idealists like the Russians.  The men with whom I mix neither walk with their heads turned to the clouds nor do they grope about amongst the mud.  They just look straight ahead of them, and they ask for what they see in the path.”

“I see,” he murmured.  “And now, having reached just this stage in our conversation, let me ask you this.  You read the newspapers?”

“Diligently,” she assured him.

“Are you aware of a very curious note of unrest during the last few days—­hints at a crisis in the war which nothing in the military situation seems to justify—­vague but rather gloomy suggestions of an early peace?”

“Every one is talking about it,” she agreed.  “I think that you and I have some idea as to what it means.”

“Have we?” he asked quietly.

“And somehow,” she went on, dropping her voice a little, “I believe that your knowledge goes farther than mine.”

He gave no sign, made no answer.  Some question from across the table, with reference to the action of one of his country’s Ministers, was referred to him.  He replied to it and drifted quite naturally into a general conversation.  Without any evident effort, he seemed to desire to bring his tete-a-tete with Catherine to a close.  She showed no sign of disappointment; indeed she fell into his humour and made vigorous efforts to attack the subject of Y.M.C.A. huts with her neighbour on the right.  The rest of the meal passed in this manner, and it was not until they met, an hour later, in the Princess’ famous reception room, that they exchanged more than a casual word.  The Princess liked to entertain her guests in a fashion of her own.  The long apartment, with its many recesses and deep windows, an apartment which took up the whole of one side of the large house, had all the dignity and even splendour of a drawing-room, and yet, with its little palm court, its cosy divans, its bridge tables and roulette board, encouraged an air of freedom which made it eminently habitable.

“I wonder, Baron,” she asked, “what time you are leaving, and whether I could rely upon your escort to the Lawsons’ dance?  Don’t hesitate to say if you have an engagement, as it only means my telephoning to some friends.”