Captain B---- belonged to the old Russian aristocracy. He had an estate in the Altai mountains, which had been destroyed by Bolshevists, and gold mines. He had a villa in Japan. He had travelled round the world many times, and knew Africa, for instance, like the palm of his hand. He referred casually to Lake Nyanza and Victoria Falls in the same matter-of-fact way that he mentioned his visit to Niagara Falls. He spoke nine languages. He had been attached to the Russian Consulate in New York for a long time. He spoke English fluently, and was a most delightful chap. His saber-hilt had the monogram of the Czar--he was close to the imperial family, without doubt, though he discreetly kept off the subject of his former associations with the court life. Mrs. B---- came originally from Bessarabia, and had lived in Moscow. She spoke French well, and was learning English. I picked up considerable Russian at those teas, and Mrs. B---- practiced her English on me, her husband laughing gaily at her mistakes. I remember one afternoon that the table cover had upon it embroidered butterflies. And while Mrs. B---- was serving my tea, I put my finger on one of these butterflies, and said, “Butterfly,” for the purpose of giving her the English of it. She looked at her husband in consternation after giving me a startled glance, and said something in Russian. He was busy opening a can of jam, and looked up in surprise at what she had said to him, for she was on the point of tears. He smiled and asked me: “What was it you just said? I did not hear. My wife did not understand.” “I said this was a butterfly,” I replied, pointing to the embroidery. He dropped the can of jam and roared with laughter, at the time patting his wife’s hand. It happened that the table cover was much the worse for wear, though of fine linen. Captain B---- spoke in explanation to his wife, and she too laughed, and began to chatter merrily. “My wife could not understand why you should mention the fact that the table cover is very old and no good,” said Captain B----. “The Russian word ‘butterclou’ means trashy, old and worn out--junk. And she thought you were referring to the table cloth as no good, when you put your finger on it and said ‘butterfly.’” I made my apologies. And then I told of the American of our Committee on Public Information who arrived at Harbin at two in the morning, and, ordered the drosky-driver to take him to a hotel. The driver looked very surprised, but he drove away with the American, and they rolled through most of the streets of Harbin, up and down and all around for an hour. The American noticed that the driver peered in at shop windows, and was in the mercantile part of the city, especially among the Chinese shops. He demanded in exasperation why the driver could not find a hotel, but all the poor driver could do was scratch his head and protest that he was doing his best.