t, and she has measured the brutality and the inconsistency which
may lie under the most polished exterior.

"I am not old yet in years," she says, once, "but I am very old in some
things. I have no illusions."

"When there is a frost in spring the field-flowers die," says Brandolin,
softly, "but they come again."

"In the fields, perhaps," replies Xenia Sabaroff.

"And in the human heart," says Brandolin.

He longs to ask her what have been the relations between her and Gervase
which people seem so sure have existed once; he longs to know whether it
was the brutality of her husband, or the infidelity of any lover, which
has taught her so early the instability of human happiness.

But he hesitates before any demand, however veiled or delicate, upon her
confidence. He has known her such a little while, and he is conscious
that she is not a _femme facile_. It is her greatest fascination for
him: though he is credited with holding women lightly, he is a man whose
theories of what they ought to be are high and difficult to realize.
Each day that he sees her at Surrenden tends to convince him more and
more that she does realize them, despite the calumnies which are set
floating round her name.

One day, among several new arrivals, a countryman of hers comes down
from London, where, being momentarily _charge-d'affaires_ of the Russian
Legation, he has been cursing the heat, the dust, the deserted squares,
the empty clubs, the ugly parks, and rushing out of town whenever he can
for twenty-four hours, as he now comes to Surrenden from Saturday to
Monday. "_Comme un calicot! Comme un calicot!_" he says, piteously. Such
are the miseries of the diplomatic service.

He kisses the hand of Madame Sabaroff with ardor and reverence: he has
known her in her own country. A gleam of amusement comes into his
half-shut gray eyes as he recognizes Gervase.

The next morning is Sunday. Usk and Dulcia Waverley are at church, with
the children and Lady Usk and Nina Curzon.

Brandolin strays into the small library, takes down a book, and
stretches himself on a couch. He half expects that Madame Sabaroff will
come down before luncheon and also seek a book, as she did last Sunday.
He lights a cigarette and waits, lazily watching the peacocks drawing
their trains over the velvety turf without. It is a lovely dewy morning,
very fresh and fragrant after rains in the night. He thinks he will
persuade her to go for a walk: there is a charming