I took advantage of Thistleton’s kind intimation and called on his wife. It was a fine autumn afternoon, and while we sat in the drawing-room and talked, I looked through the open windows on to the lawn. Countess Vera sat there, surrounded by the four youngest Thistleton children--Gladys, Myra, Molly, and the boy Evanstone (Mrs Thistleton was a Miss Evanstone). The Countess and the children all held books in their hands, and snatches of the French tongue fell on my ear from time to time. “It’s really very perplexing,” said Mrs Thistleton, “and it’s difficult to do the right thing. I’m sure you credit us with wanting to do the right thing, Mr Tregaskis?” “I’m sure you’d do the right and the kind thing.” “The money she brought over is quite exhausted. Mr Thistleton has spent a considerable sum in getting up her case and presenting it to the Boravian Court. His efforts meet with no attention--indeed with absolute contempt.” “They’re not afraid of her?” “Not in the least. And here she is--literally without a farthing! And hardly a gown to her back--at least, hardly one suitable for----” She broke off, ending: “But what do you know about gowns?” “Rather a remarkable situation for a princess!” “If she would let us beg for her, even! The Government might do something. But she won’t hear of it. Then she says she’ll go. Where to? What can she do? If she won’t beg, she’d starve. We can’t let her starve, can we? But times aren’t good, and---- Oh, well, I must give you some tea. Would you mind ringing?” I obeyed. Merry laughs came from the children on the lawn. “The kids seem to like her,” said I, for want of better consolation. “She’s very nice to them. She’s helping them with their French.” She caught me looking at her and blushed a little. I had not seen Mrs Thistleton blush before. Suddenly the plan came before my eyes. There was no need to blush for it; it seemed to me rather great--rather great, perhaps, on both sides, but greater on Mrs Thistleton’s. “It gives her a sense of--of doing something in return, I suppose,” Mrs Thistleton went on. The maid brought in tea. “Is nursery tea ready?” Mrs Thistleton asked. “Yes, ma’am.” “Then send the children upstairs and tell the Countess that tea is here.” “Yes, ma’am.” Soon the Countess came--as small, as slight, as dark as ever, even more timid. I rose as she entered; she bowed nervously, and, going to the table, busied herself with making the tea. Mrs Thistleton lay back in her arm-chair. “Sit down, Mr Tregaskis,” she said. “You like making tea for us, don’t you, Countess?” “Yes, Mrs Thistleton, thank you,” said Countess Vera von Friedenburg. But I didn’t sit down--I couldn’t do it. I leant against the table and looked an ass all the time she made tea. III