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Page 5
"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
face, while the faintest smile played round his well-cut mouth.
"A number of things can happen in four months. Are you looking
forward to your life as the wife of a priest--but I understand it
is different in England to in my country--there I could not
recommend the situation to you."
Stella found absolutely no answer to this. She only felt a sudden,
wild longing to cry out that the idea of being a curate's wife--
even the Bishop's junior young gentleman with eight hundred a year
of his own--had never appeared a thrilling picture, and was now
causing her a feeling of loathing. She thought she ought to talk
no longer to this stranger, and half rose from her seat.
He put out a protesting hand, both had been clasped idly over the
Times until then without a movement.
"No--do--not go--I have disturbed you--I am sorry," he pleaded.
"Listen, there is a great reception at your Embassy to-morrow
night--for one of our Royal Family who is here. You will go,
perhaps. If so, I will do so also, although I dislike parties--and
there I will be presented to you with ceremony--it will appease
that English convention in you, and after that I shall say to you
a number of things--but I prefer to sit here and speak behind the
Times."
At this instant he raised the paper, and appeared again the
stranger almost entirely hidden from view. And Stella saw that her
Uncle Erasmus was rapidly approaching her with an envelope in his
hand. She seized her pen again and continued her broken sentence
to Eustace--her betrothed. Canon Ebley viewed the Times and its
holder with suspicion for an instant, but its stillness reassured
him, and he addressed his niece.
"Very civil of the Embassy to send us a card for the reception to-
morrow night, Stella; I am glad we wrote names when we arrived.
Your Aunt Caroline bids you accept, as her spectacles are
upstairs."
Miss Rawson did as she was bid, and her uncle waited, fidgeting
with his feet. He wished the stranger to put down the Times, which
he wanted himself--or, at all events, remove his long legs and
hidden body from such a near proximity to his niece; they could
not say a word that he could not overhear, Canon Ebley mused.
However, the unknown remained where he was, and turned a page of
the paper with great deliberation.
"Your aunt will be ready to go out again now," the Uncle Erasmus
announced, as Stella placed her acceptance in the envelope. "You
had better go up and put your hat on, my dear."
The Times rustled slightly--and Stella replied a little hurriedly:
"I was just finishing a letter, uncle, then I will come."
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