ero 843_, where his aunt, Madame Dravikine,
vouchsafed him ten minutes of her much-besought time, it being the
afternoon of one of her receptions. In her small, but admirably arranged
drawing-rooms, were gathered the cream of a certain set of Petersburg
society, now met for the first time this season, and making the rooms
echo with their particular variety of scandalous, intensely personal
news acquired during a long summer, and apparently having been held back
for exploitation at this special hour. Unintelligible as it proved to
Ivan's unsophisticated ears, he listened with awe to the sound of royal,
and other lofty and sacred names bandied about with a familiarity that
was the opposite of respect.

By some imperceptible means, Madame Dravikine saw to it that her nephew
came in contact with those people who could be useful to him; and she
was satisfied, if slightly surprised, to see the ease with which he
talked. Ivan himself wondered that he felt so little embarrassment in
entering into the mood of the hour, and, while he talked, drank a great
many cups of tea, each of which contained a considerable quantity of
rum. But all the time he kept an eye over his shoulder, in the hope of
catching some glimpse of his cousin Nathalie. Time passed, and the young
lady did not appear. Ivan longed but did not dare to inquire about her.
So, at last, he walked back to his apartment, arm in arm with de Windt,
who had been no less surprised than pleased at discovering him in the
house of so established a leader as Madame Dravikine. De Windt, himself
a celebrated dandy, began, as they left the Serghievskaia.

"You are an enigma--a deceiver, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Here it is a week
since you arrived. You profess to know no one. But you managed
immediately to join quarters with me; and now "--he stopped, turning
from the wind to light his cigarette--"now, on the first afternoon you
are left alone, you immediately appear at one of the best-known houses
in the Admiralty quarter, where you seem as much at home as--I myself!"

Ivan echoed his companion's laugh. He had gauged the real depth of de
Windt's conceit, and knew him to be, at bottom, both sincere and just in
his estimates of men and things. "I ought to be at home there, at
least," he observed, quietly. "Caroline Ivanovna--Madame Dravikine--is
my aunt."

"St. Serge!--And you let us dub you '_bonhomme nouveau_'!--_Grand
Diable_, Ivan Mikhailovitch, had you had the choice of Petersburg