I was quite socially inclined, and made calls on anyone staying in the palace. I chatted with all on various subjects. “If Olga and Tatiana ever marry, will they leave us? Olga squeezed an orange peel yesterday and it squirted right into my eye. Do you know that Mashka (Marie) put on her underwear wrong side out and refused to change it, it is very bad luck. Did you hear that “baby” (Alexei) painted a droopy mustache on his face with a crayon? Olga says, he looks like the Cossack in Riepin’s painting. Do you know that painting? Why do you think Marie did not take her cold bath this morning? Olga says that mother kangaroos hide their babies in a sack on their bodies and the babies poke their heads out to see where they are going. Why doesn’t papa get cribs for the kangarooshkas?” These ideas or others like them were expressed to all in five to ten minutes of social visits. Sometimes I asked them to tell me stories like the Golden Apple and the Princess. I clapped my hands and thanked them for the most delicious story. If anyone was not well, I was ready to play nurse. My one cure for the indisposed was always a wet towel on the forehead. Some of my most pleasant early memories about Mother were the times when she told us stories. There was one favorite she was asked to repeat over and over. One day she changed the words slightly and I burst into tears, saying: “But, Mommy, I like the old story better.” When I was older, Mother read to me an American book called _Ramona_. As much as I could understand, it was a fascinating story about an Indian girl. It made a big impression on me, and left me with the most tender feeling of affection for the Indian girl. Several years later, when I heard that an American gentleman was coming to see Mother, I begged to be allowed to meet him. I remember that I wore my best new dress, of white silk, a recent gift from Queen Alexandra of England. This frock had smocking at the waist. I was told it came from Liberty’s of London. I kept this dress until the war, at which time I gave it to an orphanage. At the time of this American’s visit, the nurse was supposed to bring me downstairs when Mother rang the bell. But, when I heard the signal, I ran ahead, and flew down the spiral stairway as fast as my feet could carry me, and burst breathlessly into the room. A tall handsome gentleman arose and politely kissed my hand as we were introduced. Distressed, and almost in tears, I looked sideways up to him as I cried out in surprise: “Mother, this gentleman is not an American because he does not have his feather hat or his blanket.” The poor man, whoever he was, tried his best to explain, but to me, he still was not an American.