e laces and chiffons, and she was quick and light in her
gestures like a bird. Her husband, who had been twice her age, had died,
leaving her large estates and much money. Now she moved about Russia
with a maid and a wee little dog and numberless trunks, frivolously
seeking her pleasure. Her eyes were black and glittering, and her mouth
red and thin and flexible. She had caressing, spoiled ways with every
one from the American whom she called "Meester" to her chow dog, and all
she asked from any one was amusement.

"I like Americans," she said with shameless flattery. "So much I like
them. The women--_and_ the men. I shall go to New York after the war,
and you will show me your famous cabarets, and--what do you call it?"
She appealed to "Meester."

"Broadway--good old Broadway," he replied indulgently.

"Ah, yes. B-r-r-oadway. And I will dance all night. I dance
magnificently. Is it not so, Meester? Yes, I will go to New York and
become just like an American."

After dinner we went to a wrestling-match, and "Meester" took the
Princess, radiant and vivacious and paying all the bills, back to the
Continental.

Since July war has come nearer Kiev. The hospitals are full of maimed
and wounded soldiers who fought to defend Russia. They made a bulwark of
their breasts. It was as though one single giant breast, hundreds of
versts broad, thrust itself between the Germans and home.

And it is winter now. The days are short with an icy, gray mist from the
Dnieper, and flurries of snow. There is a shortage of coal, and we sit
shivering in our apartment. We drag the covers off the beds and wrap
ourselves up in them while we read books from the circulating library or
play three-handed bridge. The wind rattles the windows and streaks the
panes with snow and rain. But however dirty they get, they must remain
unwashed till spring; for they are sealed for the winter with putty, and
you can open only one small pane at the top. The apartment is darker
than ever. Not once does the sun shine into our rooms. We see the
sunlight in the street, but the dark shadow of the building lengthens
minute by minute, stretching itself across the street and reaching up
over the convent wall like the smothering black hand of a giant, till
only the tips of the cypresses and poplars in the gardens are red in the
late sunlight.

At tea-time we go to "Francois's" or to some other little sweet-shop, in
order to get warm. There, we drink glass after gla