After the marriage ceremony Count Barineff went abroad with his wife and her daughter, now his daughter too; and they were forgotten up to the time when the countess, really a widow now--for probably there had never been a M. Froment--returned to Russia to take possession of her late husband's property. His extravagance of all kinds had made some deep inroads into it, but enough was left for her to maintain a very honorable rank with. On her return to St. Petersburg, after an absence of ten years, the ex-leading lady of the Michael Theatre had encountered a goodly number of her former adorers; and as she was still beautiful, and her daughter--now fourteen years old--was growing to be very pretty, her drawing-room was soon a meeting-place for that elegant and frivolous world of people who trouble their heads very little about the past of the mistress of a house where they are well received. Whether it was that years of discretion had come to her, or that she cleverly concealed the truth, the Countess Barineff gave no chance to scandal. Her conduct--at any rate in appearance--was perfectly upright and respectable. At her house there was always good music, thanks to the artistes of all nations whom she liked to invite, and received in charming fashion when they came. There was dancing too, now and then, and often brilliant talk about France and the literary movement there. In the drawing-room of the intelligent widow was sure to be heard the latest news of Parisian fashions, and the last issued novels of famous Paris publishing firms were always there. There was no prudery, and a slightly scandalous story might be told; but anything that was said or done was in the tone and manner of good society. It may be imagined that this position, so cleverly gained by the adroit countess, had rekindled the flame of her former adorers. Close siege was laid to her; she was even asked to give a successor to her first husband--the Russian--but the most ardent declarations left her cold and unmoved. To her most intimate friend, General Podoi, who in the old days had wished to marry her, and was still deeply in love with her, she replied one day when he was pressing her to come to a decision: "My dear general, I don't know whether I shall ever marry again. I doubt it. At any rate, I shall never commit this folly a second time until Lise herself is married. First of all, then, a husband must be found worthy of my daughter. You see, there is plenty of time yet. When I am about to become a grandmother, I shall be almost an old woman whom nobody will care for." The countess might have added, but she did not, as much from prudence as politeness: "And you, my good Podoi, will scarcely be of a figure to make a presentable husband then."