itutes a further variety; the rarest of all; the kind who would
never think about Mrs. Talcott one way or the other. But surely Karen is
no kind at all. Could you call her an American? She has never been
there. She is a sort of racial waif. The only root, the only nationality
she seems to have is Mercedes; her very character is constituted by her
relation to Mercedes; her only charm is her devotion--for she is indeed
sincerely and wholeheartedly devoted. Mercedes is a sort of
fairy-godmother to her, a sun-goddess, who lifted her out of the dust
and whirled her away in her chariot. But she isn't interesting," Miss
Scrotton again assured him. "She is literal and unemotional, and, in
some ways, distinctly dull. I have seen the poor fairy-godmother sigh
and shrug sometimes over her inordinately long letters. She writes to
her with relentless regularity and I really believe that she imagines
that Mercedes quite depends on hearing from her. No; I don't mean that
she is conceited; it's not that exactly; she is only dull; very, very
dull; and I don't know how Mercedes endures having her so much with her.
She feels that the girl depends on her, of course, and she is helplessly
generous."

Gregory Jardine listened to these elucidations, leaning back in the
sofa, a hand clasping his ankle, his eyes turning now on Miss Scrotton
and now on the subject of their conversation. Miss Scrotton had amused
him. She was entertainingly simple if at moments entertainingly
intelligent, and he had divined that she was jealous of the crumbs that
fell to Miss Woodruff's share from the table of Madame von Marwitz's
bounty. A slight malice that had gathered in him during his talk with
Eleanor Scrotton found expression in his next remark. "She is certainly
charming looking; anyone so charming looking has a right to be dull."
But Miss Scrotton did not heed him. She had risen to her feet. "Here she
is!" she exclaimed, looking towards the door in radiant satisfaction.
"You will meet her after all. I'll do my very best so that you shall
have a little talk with her."

The door had been thrown open and Madame Okraska had appeared upon the
threshold.

CHAPTER IV

She stood for a moment, with her hand resting on the lintel, and she
surveyed an apparently unexpected audience with contemplative
melancholy. If she was not pleased to find them so many, she was, at all
events unresentful, and Gregory imagined, from Mrs. Forrester's bright
flutter in