e
only countries remaining to us in which Messalina can still do her
little murders comfortably without any fuss being made."

"She isn't Messalina, at least I think not. But one never knows."

"No, one never knows till one tries," says Brandolin. And he wishes
vaguely that the Russian woman were already here. He is fond of
Surrenden, and fond of all its people, but he is a little, a very
little, bored. He sees that all Lady Usk's doves are paired, and he does
not wish to disturb their harmony, possibly because none of the feminine
doves attract him. But he cannot flirt forever with the children,
because the children are not very often visible, and without flirting
civilized life is dull, even for a man who is more easily consoled by
ancient authors off the library-shelves than most people can be.

This conversation occurs in the forenoon in Lady Usk's boudoir. In the
late afternoon in the library over their teacups the ladies talk of
Xenia Sabaroff. It is perceptible to Brandolin that they would prefer
that she should not arrive.

"Is she really so very good-looking?" he asks of Mrs. Wentworth Curzon.

"Oh, yes," replies that lady, with an accent of depreciation in her
tones. "Yes, she is very handsome; but too pale, and her eyes too large.
You know those Russian women are mere _paquets de nerfs_, shut up in
their rooms all day and smoking so incessantly: they have all that is
worst in the Oriental and Parisienne mixed together."

"How very sad!" says Brandolin. "I don't think I have known one, except
Princess Kraskawa: she went sleighing in all weathers, wore the frankest
of gingerbread wigs, and was always surrounded by about fifty
grandchildren."

Princess Kraskawa had been for many years ambassadress in London.

"Of course there are exceptions," says Nina Curzon; "but generally, you
know, they are very depraved, such inordinate gamblers, and so fond of
morphine, and always _maladives_."

"Ah," says Brandolin, pensively, "but the physical and moral perfection
of Englishwomen always makes them take too high a standard: poor
humanity toils hopelessly, and utterly exhausted, many miles behind
them."

"Don't talk nonsense," says Mrs. Curzon; "we are no better than our
neighbors, perhaps, but we are not afraid of the air, we don't heat our
houses to a thousand degrees above boiling-point, we don't gamble,--at
least not much,--and we don't talk every language under the sun except
our own, and yet not one of th