hungry," said Steinmetz
bluntly.

Vassili laughed, and shook a gold eye-glass chidingly.

"Ah, my friend, your old pernicious habit of calling a spade a spade! It
is unfortunate that they should hunger a little, but what will you? They
must learn to be provident, to work harder and drink less. With such
people experience is the only taskmaster possible. It is useless talking
to them. It is dangerous to pauperize them. Besides, the accounts that
one reads in the newspapers are manifestly absurd and exaggerated. You
must not, mademoiselle," he said, turning courteously to Maggie, "you
must not believe all you are told about Russia."

"I do not," replied Maggie, with an honest smile which completely
baffled M. Vassili. He had not had much to do with people who smiled
honestly.

"Vrai!" he said, with grave emphasis; "I am not joking. It is a matter
of the strictest fact that fiction has for the moment fixed its fancy
upon my country--just as it has upon the East End of your London. Mon
Dieu! what a lot of harm fiction with a purpose can do!"

"But we do not take our facts from fiction in England," said Maggie.

"Nor," put in Steinmetz, with his blandest smile, "do we allow fiction
to affect our facts."

Vassili glanced at Steinmetz sideways.

"Here is dinner," he said. "Mme. la Princesse, may I have the honor?"

The table was gorgeously decorated; the wine was perfect; the dishes
Parisian. Every thing was brilliant, and Etta's spirits rose. Such
little things affect the spirits of such little-minded women. It
requires a certain mental reserve from which to extract cheerfulness
over a chop and a pint of beer withal, served on a doubtful cloth. But
some of us find it easy enough to be witty and brilliant over good wine
and a perfectly appointed table.

"It is exile; it is nothing short of exile," protested Vassili, who led
the conversation. "Much as I admire my own country, as a country, I do
not pretend to regret a fate that keeps me resident in Paris. For men it
is different, but for madame, and for you, mademoiselle--ach!" He
shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling in mute appeal to
the gods above it. "Beauty, brilliancy, wit--they are all lost in
Russia."

He bowed to the princess, who was looking, and to Maggie, who was not.

"What would Paris say if it knew what it was losing?" he added in a
lower tone to Etta, who smiled, well pleased. She was not always able to
distinguish between impertine