“’Shh-sh-sh!” resounded from every side. “Hush-a-by baby! No personalities, _please_, especially about the Imperial Family.” “Well,” grunted Zàptine, “it’s going to be lovely if we can’t dander the Grand Dukes between ourselves, especially as in this case it would be quite ancient history. Last year, by the way, the illustrious _Lesghise_ in question was on the friendliest of terms with a bonny Englishman who had more good looks than money--which shows that some women are cruelly misjudged.” “Yes! Of course! But I heard that their friendship was a mere blind, a screen, a _laisser-courre_, as one might say.” “A screen? For whose benefit?” “Some benighted husband’s, I dare say, who believed in the pure and loyal satisfaction of matrimonial life. I was assured that the British son of Mars, who is in the habit of obtaining Russian passports at irregular intervals, was not here for the _beaux-yeux_ of the _Lesghise_ at all, but merely traveled with her to throw dust in somebody’s eyes.” “_Vier Kinder, kein Arbeit, und kein Geld, der kommt gewiss von Lerchenfeldt!_” parodied Zàptine, singing at the top of his lungs. “And who’s the fortunate mortal who hides behind one fair woman in order to meet a fairer one with more safety? We must naturally suppose that the second one is the fairer, else how would you account for his criminal coldness toward the screen?” “I don’t remember his name,” mused Mourièff. “Something ending with a _y_, I think. (_Diable!_ but that punch is hot! Pour a bottle of brandy in to cool it!) I saw him, though--the happy mortal, that is--several times. Pleasing chap with square shoulders and many inches, soft, lackadaisical brown eyes, a promising trifle of a mustache, and big, white teeth.” “The better to eat you, my child!” cried Zàptine. “Military, did you say?” “Of course--could see it at a glance; been drilled, you know. Came here as a private individual, but was recognized by-- Let me see, who told me? Oh, I remember--our Colonel, our beloved jewel of a Colonel, that Cavalier of Cavaliers whom we glory in obeying, said the interesting youth was Military Attaché somewhere, somehow, but mum was the word--he was so visibly here for other purposes than to slyly inspect our frontier defenses. I met him--not the Colonel--the Don Juan--one afternoon leaving the upper galleries of the _Gostinoï-Dvòr_--there’s always plenty of solitude there, for that’s merely where the reserve merchandise from below is kept. He didn’t seem pleased to see me--pulled the collar of his coat up to his eyes, and slunk away with black guilt showing in every line of his back. Talk of petticoats! Lord, it wasn’t the _Lesghise’s_ he--” Basil, who had been listening at first only with one ear and then with absorbed attention, threw his cigar away with sudden violence.