"I am a Russian," he said simply. "I come from near Moscow--and my name is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski. Yours, I am aware, is Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called--Mary, perhaps? That is English." "No, my name is not Mary," she answered, and froze a little--but the Russian's eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild frankness which disarmed any resentment. She felt they were as calm as deep pools of blue water--they filled her with a sense of confidence and security--which she could not account for in any way. Her color deepened--something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to compel her to answer his late question. "My Christian name is Stella," she said, rather quickly, then added nervously: "I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an English clergyman--we are going to be married in September next." "And this is May," was all Count Roumovski replied; then, for the first time since he had addressed her, he turned his eyes from her face, while the faintest smile played round his well-cut mouth. "A number of things can happen in four months. Are you looking forward to your life as the wife of a priest--but I understand it is different in England to in my country--there I could not recommend the situation to you." Stella found absolutely no answer to this. She only felt a sudden, wild longing to cry out that the idea of being a curate's wife--even the Bishop's junior young gentleman with eight hundred a year of his own--had never appeared a thrilling picture, and was now causing her a feeling of loathing. She thought she ought to talk no longer to this stranger, and half rose from her seat. He put out a protesting hand, both had been clasped idly over the Times until then without a movement. "No--do--not go--I have disturbed you--I am sorry," he pleaded. "Listen, there is a great reception at your Embassy to-morrow night--for one of our Royal Family who is here. You will go, perhaps. If so, I will do so also, although I dislike parties--and there I will be presented to you with ceremony--it will appease that English convention in you, and after that I shall say to you a number of things--but I prefer to sit here and speak behind the Times." At this instant he raised the paper, and appeared again the stranger almost entirely hidden from view. And Stella saw that her Uncle Erasmus was rapidly approaching her with an envelope in his hand. She seized her pen again and continued her broken sentence to Eustace--her betrothed. Canon Ebley viewed the Times and its holder with suspicion for an instant, but its stillness reassured him, and he addressed his niece. "Very civil of the Embassy to send us a card for the reception to-morrow night, Stella; I am glad we wrote names when we arrived. Your Aunt Caroline bids you accept, as her spectacles are upstairs."