He hears a step, and looks up: he does not see her, but the Russian secretary, Gregor Litroff, always called "Toffy" by his female friends in England. "_Dieu de Dieu!_ What an institution your English Sunday is!" says Litroff, with a yawn. "I looked out of my window an hour ago, and beheld Usk in a tall hat, with his little boy on one side and miladi Waverley on the other, solemnly going to church. How droll! He would not do it in London." "It is not more ridiculous to go to church in a tall hat than to prostrate yourself and kiss a wooden cross, as you would do if you were at home," says Brandolin, contemptuously, eying the intruder with irritation. "That may be," says the secretary, good-humoredly. "We do it from habit, to set an example, not to make a fuss. So, I suppose, does he." "Precisely," says Brandolin, wondering how he shall get rid of this man. "And he takes Lady Waverley for an example, too?" asks Litroff, with a laugh. "Religion enjoins us," replies Brandolin, curtly, "to offer what we have most precious to the Lord." The secretary laughs again. "That is very good," he says, with enjoyment. Mr. Wootton comes in at that instant. He has been away, but has returned: the cooks at Surrenden are admirable. Brandolin sees his hopes of a _tête-à-tête_ and a walk in the home wood fading farther and farther from view. Mr. Wootton has several telegram-papers in his hand. "All bad news, from all the departments," he remarks. "There is nothing but bad news," says Brandolin. "It is painful to die by driblets. We shall all be glad when we have got the thing over,--seen Windsor burnt, London sacked, Ireland admitted to the American Union, and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone crowned at Westminster." Mr. Wootton coughs: he does not like unseemly jests, nor to have the gravity and exclusiveness of the private intelligence he receives doubted. He turns to Litroff, talks of Russian politics, and brings the conversation round to the Princess Sabaroff. Brandolin, appearing absorbed in his book, lies on his couch wondering whether he should meet her anywhere about the gardens if he went out. He listens angrily when he hears her name. "Was she ever talked about?" asks Mr. Wootton, searching the book-shelves. "What charming woman is not?" returns Litroff, gallantly. "My dear count," replies Mr. Wootton, with grave rebuke, "we have thousands of noble wives and mothers in England before whom Satan himself would be obliged to bow in reverence." "Ah, truly," says Litroff: "so have we, I dare say: I have never asked." "No doubt you have," says Mr. Wootton, kindly. "The virtue of its women is the great safeguard of a nation." "One understands why England is losing her nice equipoise, then, now," murmurs Brandolin. Mr. Wootton disregards him. "But Madame Sabaroff _was_ talked about, I think,--unjustly, no doubt?" he insists. Mr. Wootton always insists. "Ach!" says Litroff, apologetically, "Sabaroff was such a great brute. It was very natural----"