st
spoke.

"What do you think of Russia, Mr. Hay?" she asked.

He jerked his head round at her in surprise.

"You didn't know me on the hill," she laughed, "but I knew you! And
there are not so many foreigners in the Kieff region that you should be
unknown to the Grand Duke," she said, "and besides, you were at the
reception which my father gave a year ago."

"I did not see your Highness there," said Malcolm. "I came
especially----" he stopped short in confusion.

"That was probably because I was not visible," she replied dryly. "I
have been to Cambridge for a year to finish my education."

"That is why your English is so good," he smiled.

"It's much better than your Russian," she said calmly. "You ought not to
have said '_ukhoditzay_' to people--you only say that to beggars, and I
think they were rather annoyed with you."

"I should imagine they were," he laughed; "but won't you tell me what
happened to your servant? I thought I saw him on the outskirts of the
crowd and the impression I formed was----" he hesitated.

"I shouldn't form impressions if I were you," she said hurriedly. "Here
in Russia one ought not to puzzle one's head over such things. When you
meet the inexplicable, accept it as such and inquire no further."

She was silent again, and when she spoke she was more serious.

"The Russian people always impress me as a great sea of lava, boiling
and spluttering and rolling slowly between frail banks which we have
built for them," said the girl.

"I often wonder whether those banks will ever break," said Malcolm
quietly; "if they do----"

"Yes?"

"They will burn up Russia," said Malcolm.

"So I think," said the girl. "Father believes that the war----" she
stopped short.

"The war?"

Malcolm had heard rumours so often of the inevitable war which would be
fought to establish the hegemony of the Slav over Eastern Europe that
the scepticism in his tone was pardonable. She looked at him sharply.

"You do not think there will be war?"

"One has heard so often," he began.

"I know, I know," she said, a little impatiently, and changed the
subject.

They talked about the people, the lovable character of the peasants, the
extraordinary depth of their religious faiths, their amazing
superstitions, and suddenly Malcolm remembered the book in his pocket,
and was about to speak of it, but stopped himself, feeling that, by so
speaking, he was betraying the confidence of the old man who had
entru