The Cardinal lived in a small detached house, within the precincts of the Vatican, and Irene was struck, by no means for the first time, by the resemblance between these Vatican houses and courtyards, and the inner courts and arch-priest’s dwellings of Russian monasteries. There was in both the same sense of chill and isolation and lifelessness. Even the waiting-room into which a slow old servant led Irene was exactly like the room of a Russian monastic priest. The same clumsy wooden furniture upholstered in red velvet, the same religious pictures. The only things that were missing were the typical and inevitable strip of canvas that runs like a pathway right across the floors of all our Russian priestly houses, and the extraordinary variety of worsted cushions, with their wonderful patterns of fantastic animals and flowers, embroidered for our priests by pious Russian parishioners. A young secretary twice passed through the waiting-room, throwing, each time, a quick but scrutinizing glance at Irene. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he approached her, with a charming smile: “Voudriez vous me dire, Mademoiselle,” he inquired, “le motif pour lequel vous désirez voir Son Eminence?” Irene did not know how to answer. She really could not say that she had come simply to pacify a troublesome friend! “J’ai entendu parler de la sympathie que Son Eminence éprouve pour les Russes,” she stammered vaguely. “Oh oui! Oh oui!” said the secretary, nodding his head. “Les sympathies de Son Eminence pour la Russie sont bien connues. Cependant, Mademoiselle, il me semble que vous devez avoir une raison plus … plus …” The secretary was evidently at a loss to find the right word. Noticing that he was regarding her enormous muff with interest, Irene remembered that an attempt to assassinate a highly-placed personage, had recently been made in Rome. “I understand your anxiety,” she remarked. “There are visitors who arrive with a bomb in their muffs!” With these words, as though accidentally, she made a movement with her muff, bringing it close to the secretary’s eyes. He glanced sharply into it, and was evidently appeased. “Oh! certes, Son Eminence sera très satisfaite de vous voir, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Veuillez attendre quelques instants au salon; Son Eminence ne tardera pas à rentrer.” The waiting-room, in the meantime, was filling with people. An old Monsignor entered, and Irene bowed to him. To her surprise, however, he not only did not reply, but never even glanced in her direction. Another priest entered, and again the same thing happened. Then came three Capuchin monks who made obvious efforts to look at anything but Irene, and sat down at the furthest possible point from her. The proud, sensitive woman felt deeply offended and annoyed.