firelight twinkling on the beads of her slipper, on her silken instep,
and flashing again from the rings upon the slender fingers she had
clasped about her knee.

She had lit a thin, long Russian cigarette.

"You see?" she laughed. "I mus' keep up with the time. I mus' do
somesing to hold my frien's about me. Even the ladies like to play
now--that breedge w'ich is so tiresome--they play, play, play! And
you--you Americans, you refuse to endure us if we do not let you play.
So for my frien's when they come to my house--if they wish it, there
is that foolish little table. I fear"--she concluded with a bewitching
affectation of sadness--"they prefer that to talkin' wiz me."

"You know that couldn't be so, _Comtesse_," he said. "I would rather
talk to you than--than--"

"Ah, yes, you say so, Monsieur!" She looked at him gravely; a little
sigh seemed to breathe upon her lips; she leaned forward nearer the
fire, her face wistful in the thin, rosy light, and it seemed to him he
had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He came across to her and sat upon a stool at her feet. "On my soul," he
began huskily, "I swear--"

She laid her finger on her lips, shaking her head gently; and he was
silent, while the intelligent maid--at that moment entering--arranged a
tea-table and departed.

"American an' Russian, they are the worse," said the Countess