's whim for her to keep.

Maria Badisikaya, an officer of the Committee for the Suppression of
the Counter-Revolution, formerly an operative in the Moscow Cigarette
Company, was waiting in the small drawing-room which still retained some
of its ancient splendour. Maria was a short, stumpy woman with a slight
moustache and a wart on her chin, and was dressed in green satin, cut
low to disclose her generous figure. About her stiff, coal-black hair
was a heavy diamond bandeau. She was sitting on a settee, her feet
hardly touching the ground, cleaning her nails with a little
pocket-knife as the girl entered. Evidently this was her maid of honour,
and she could have laughed.

The woman glowered up at her and jumped briskly to her feet, closing the
knife and slipping it into her corsage.

"You are late, Irene Yaroslav," she said shrilly. "I have something
better to do than to sit here waiting for a boorjoo. There is a
committee meeting at ten o'clock to-night. How do you imagine I can
attend that? Come, come!"

She bustled into an ante-room.

"Here is your dress, my little bride. See, there is everything, even to
stockings--Boolba has thought of all, yet he will not see! La! la! What
a man!"

Numerous articles of attire were laid out on chairs and on the back of
the sofa, and the girl, looking at them, shuddered. It was Boolba's
idea--nobody but Boolba would have thought of it. Every garment was of
red, blood red, a red which seemed to fill the room with harsh sound.
Stockings of finest silk, shoes of russian leather, cobweb
underwear--but all of the same hideous hue. In Russia the word "red" is
also the word "beautiful." In a language in which so many delicate
shades of meaning can be expressed, this word serves a double purpose,
doing duty for that which, in the eyes of civilized people, is garish,
and that which is almost divine.

Maria's manner changed suddenly. From the impatient, slightly pompous
official, conscious of her position, she became obsequious and even
affectionate. Possibly she remembered that the girl was to become the
wife of the most powerful man in Moscow, whose word was amply sufficient
to send even Gregory Prodol to the execution yard, and Gregory's
position seemed unassailable.

"I will help you to dress, my little dear," she said. "Let me take your
hat, my little dove."

"I would rather be alone," said the girl. "Will you please wait in the
next room, Maria Badisikaya?"

"But I can help