Having reached the stately painted gateway of the Wertsch family mansion or palace, the two boys were admitted by the porter and led across an ample courtyard into a large saloon furnished in a manner utterly strange to Ivan. As no one was there, he had time to indulge his wonder and curiosity. Chairs and tables, divans and ottomans, with many other objects, of the uses of which he had not the slightest conception, were scattered about in profusion; the woodwork was painted rose-colour or lilac, and lavishly adorned with gilding, while the numerous cushions were covered with a kind of tapestry of a shining gray. At one side of the room a row of slender shafts, rose-coloured and tipped with gold, supported climbing-plants in luxuriant flower; at the other, three large windows looked out upon the terrace and the pleasure-grounds beyond it. Ivan thought these windows were open, and was stepping confidently towards one of them, when Feodor pulled him back with a laugh. “Take care, Prince Ivan,” he said; “that is one great sheet of glass. I have seen such before; they cost--oh, I know not how many roubles. But come, let us look at the orangery;” and he pointed to a trellised door at the farther end of the room. Here a fairy scene met their view. Oranges gleamed amidst dark glossy foliage like “golden lamps hid in a night of green;” heavy clusters of grapes, purple and amber, hung high above their heads; peaches, apricots, and plums ripened temptingly beside them--for in that ungenial climate many fruits that grow elsewhere in the open air require the protection of glass. Wonderful was the wealth of flowers, all of which were new to Ivan. Sheets of blossom--gold, and purple, and scarlet, azure, and creamy white--wooed his delighted gaze; and ever and anon he paused as some rare peculiar beauty, rose or lily, geranium or costly orchid, attracted his eye with the richness of its colouring or the grace of its form. But this was not the first “orangery” (all greenhouses were then called orangeries in Russia) which Feodor had seen, and he had no objection to show off his larger experiences before his senior and his superior in rank. He could even name to him a few of the flowers. “Look here,” he said, as he paused before a plant laden with clusters of graceful bells, their dark crimson sheaths half concealing cups of white faintly tinged with rose-colour; “that is called fuchsia. There is one of the same kind in the Kremlin gardens. Last winter’s frost nearly killed it; but it lives still--a thick, stunted, hardy bush, with little red flowers, as unlike as possible to this one. That is like me, and this one before us is like you, Prince Ivan. You are going to be put in the orangery, because you were born a boyar; while I am left outside in the frost and snow. After all, I had rather be myself than you. It is hot here in the orangery, and there is not room enough--one could not run or play in comfort.”