calm assured movements. She really was splendid, I thought, with the
fine carriage of her head, her large mild eyes, her firm strong hands.

"All ready for the guest, Vera Michailovna?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, smiling at me, "I hope so. He won't be very
particular, will he, because we aren't princes?"

"I can't answer for him," I replied, smiling back at her. "But he can't
be more particular than the Hon. Charles--and he was a great success."

The Hon. Charles was a standing legend in the family, and we always
laughed when we mentioned him.

"I don't know"--she stopped her work at the table and stood, her hand up
to her brow as though she would shade her eyes from the light--"I wish
he wasn't coming--the new Englishman, I mean. Better perhaps as we
were--Nicholas--" she stopped short. "Oh, I don't know! They're
difficult times, Ivan Andreievitch."

The door opened and old Uncle Ivan came in. He was dressed very smartly
with a clean white shirt and a black bow tie and black patent leather
shoes, and his round face shone as the sun.

"Ah, Mr. Durward," he said, trotting forward. "Good health to you! What
excellent weather we're sharing."

"So we are, M. Semyonov," I answered him. "Although it did rain most of
yesterday you know. But weather of the soul perhaps you mean? In that
case I'm very glad to hear that you are well."