this gentleman is Sir Paul Verdayne. He is an old
friend of the Countess Oreshefski. I met him at her house in Paris.
Sir Paul will be our guest--until to-morrow," she added.

The young man grasped Paul's hand warmly.

"A friend of the good Countess is most welcome," he exclaimed. "I am
only sorry that your stay is to be so short."

Clearly, Mademoiselle was determined that Paul should not remain with
them long.

"Will you pardon me, Sir Paul," the young man continued, "if I leave
you on my sister's hands for the moment? Our overseer wishes to see
me on a matter of some importance and I shall not be free until
luncheon."

While he was speaking a large man entered--a wonderfully fine specimen
of Russian manhood. As he stood there, proud but respectful, his
flaming red beard falling over his broad chest, he looked like some
Viking who had just stepped out of an old myth.

"Alexander Andrieff, our overseer," Peter explained, and the man bowed
low to Paul.

"And now, Natalie, if you will entertain Sir Paul for the next hour he
will perhaps overlook my rudeness."

"Not at all, sir," Paul interrupted, "I am the one who should
apologize for having so imposed upon your hospitality." And with
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch he retired.

So her name was Natalie! Paul liked the name--it seemed to fit her
excellently. And he looked lovingly at the charming girl beside him.

"We will take a stroll in the garden, if it pleases you," she
suggested.

Paul was delighted. They stepped outside the house into a large
enclosure surrounded by a high stone wall. Beyond a small lake which
filled the center of the garden, they came to a seat hidden by
screening shrubs from the windows that gave upon the spot.

As they sat there under that wonderful Southern sky, with the air
laden with the perfume of countless cherry blossoms, Paul felt that he
had been translated into fairy-land, and he was almost afraid to speak
lest he break the spell and suddenly find himself back in blase
Western Europe again.

He took her hand gently in both of his. It was a beautiful hand, so
white and tender and aristocratic. On the third finger was a ring with
a blue antique; on her forefinger--worn in the Russian fashion--a
diamond. It seemed a talisman to Paul, and as he looked at it he was
happy. Feeling the touch of these fingers, his reason stopped dead and
a sweet dream came over him--the continuation, as it were, of some
interrupted fairy-scene.

"B