u, Mr. Bellingham," said Margaret, who had
conceived a great liking for the old gentleman on the previous evening,
and who would have welcomed anybody this morning.

Mr. Bellingham made a bow of the courtliest, most _ancien-regime_ kind.
He had ventured to bring her a few flowers. Would she accept them? They
were only three white roses, but there was more beauty in them than in
all Mr. Barker's profusion. Margaret took them, and smelled them, and
fastened them at her waist, and smiled a divine smile on the bearer.

"Thank you, so much," said she.

"No thanks," said he; "I am more than repaid by your appreciation;" and
he rubbed his hands together and bowed again, his head a little on one
side, as if deprecating any further acknowledgment. Then he at once
began to talk a little, to give her time to select her subject if she
would; for he belonged to a class of men who believe it their duty to
talk to women, and who do not expect to sit with folded hands and be
amused. To such men America is a revelation of social rest. In America
the women amuse the men, and the men excuse themselves by saying that
they work hard all day, and cannot be expected to work hard all the
evening. It is evidently a state of advanced civilisation,
incomprehensible to the grosser European mind--a state where talking to
a woman is considered to be hard work. Or--in fear and trembling it is
suggested--is it because they are not able to amuse their womankind? Is
their refusal a _testimonium paupertatis ingenii_? No--perish the
thought! It may have been so a long time ago, in the Golden Age. This is
not the Golden Age; it is the Age of Gold. Messieurs! faites votre jeu!

By degrees it became evident that Margaret wanted to talk about Russia,
and Mr. Bellingham humoured her, and gave her a good view of the
situation, and told anecdotes of the Princess Dolgorouki, and drew the
same distinction between Nihilists and Republicans that Count Nicholas
had made an hour earlier in the same room. Seeing she was so much
interested, Mr. Bellingham took courage to ask a question that had
puzzled him for some time. He stroked his snowy beard, and hesitated
slightly.

"Pardon me, if I am indiscreet, Madam," he said at last, "but I read in
the papers the other day that a nobleman of your name--a Count Nicholas,
I think--had landed in New York, having escaped the clutches of the
Petersburg police, who wanted to arrest him as a Nihilist. Was he--was
he any relati