o sell the
Brandolin portraits, like Charles Surface," he says, angrily, whenever
his more intimate friends venture on the suggestion. So the old house
stands in its warm-hued and casket-like loveliness, empty, save for his
occasional visits and the presence of many old and devoted servants.

"An interesting woman," he thinks now, as he exchanges with the Princess
Sabaroff the usual compliments and commonplaces of a presentation.
"Russians are always interesting: they are the only women about whom you
feel that you know very little; they are the only women who, in this
chatterbox of a generation _tout en dehors_ as it is, preserve some of
the vague charm of mystery; and what a charm that is!"

His reasons for admiring her are not those of the Babe and his sisters,
but he admires her almost as much as they. Brandolin, who in his remote
travels has seen a great deal of that simple nature which is so much
lauded by many people, has a great appreciation of well-dressed women,
and the Madame Sabaroff is admirably dressed, from her long loose
cream-colored gloves to her bronze shoes with their miniature diamond
clasps.

"Didn't I tell you?" whispers the Babe, climbing up behind Brandolin.

"Yes, you did," returned Brandolin, "and you were quite right; but it is
abominably bad manners to whisper, my dear Cecil."

The Babe subsides into silence with hot cheeks when anybody calls him
Cecil he is conscious that he has committed some flagrant offence.

"Those brats are always bothering you, princess," says their father.

"They are very kind to me," replies Xenia Sabaroff, in English which has
absolutely no foreign accent. "They make me feel at home! What a
charming place this is! I like it better than your castle--what is its
name?--where I had the pleasure to visit you at Easter."

"Orme. Oh, that's beastly,--a regular barn: obliged to go there just for
show, you know."

"Orme was built by Inigo Jones, and the ingratitude to fortune of its
owner is a constant temptation to Providence to deal in thunder-bolts,
or have matches left about by housemaids," says Brandolin.

"I think Lord Usk has not a contented mind," says Madame Sabaroff,
amused.

"Contented! By Jove, who should be, when England's going to the dogs as
fast as she can?"

"In every period of your history," says the princess, "your country is
always described as going headlong to ruin; and yet she has not gone
there yet, and she has not done ill."

"'Our