looking foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuating
character, and, far from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be
conscious that she was thrilled and interested--it was hardly to
be believed!

"Will you tell me from where you come?" she asked with sweet
bashfulness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet. "You speak
English so very well--one cannot guess."

"I am a Russian," he said simply. "I come from near Moscow--and my
name is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski. Yours, I am aware, is
Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called--Mary,
perhaps? That is English."

"No, my name is not Mary," she answered, and froze a little--but
the Russian's eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild
frankness which disarmed any resentment. She felt they were as
calm as deep pools of blue water--they filled her with a sense of
confidence and security--which she could not account for in any
way.

Her color deepened--something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to
compel her to answer his late question.

"My Christian name is Stella," she said, rather quickly, then
added nervously: "I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an
English clergyman--we are going to be married in September next."

"And this is May," was all Count Roumovski replied; then, for the
first time since he had addressed her, he turned his eyes from her