“What a splendid old Russian he is!” one thinks, noting all the kindliness and courtesy of his honored age, and the grip of a bear-trap in his hand. Yet there is an indescribable air of melancholy about him, as if a great sadness were being bravely and uncomplainingly faced. A remark from the hostess turns you to her. “Father is one of the Colonization Commission. We are all very much interested in hearing about his discussions with the settlers!” “Colonization for the settlers or for the exiles here?” you ask. “It is the government assistance for the voluntary emigrants, not for the unfortunate ones.” “But the latter must be a problem in themselves?” Madame seems embarrassed. The student leans over and in a low tone whispers: “His youngest son, the brother of Vladimir, is in hiding, is under sentence of death. They don’t speak of him here.” “He has just come from the Governor,” adds Madame Karetnikov, “who is a great friend of his. The Governor has heard from Petersburg that they may bestow the cross of St. Stanislaus.” “That is the autocracy here, which you do not know in your country,” adds the student, in a low voice. “He is an intimate friend of the Governor and two of his sons are officials, yet his last son is beyond pardon. The old man himself knows not where he is. Yet they decorate the father. He still believes in the Emperor.” “Do not let my nephew talk politics to you,” says the hostess, rather anxiously. Valerian is silent. A supplementary tureen of soup makes its appearance, and the two newcomers are served with it. The rest of the party have advanced to boiled sturgeon, with a thin sauce, compensated by Russian Château Yquem from the Imperial domain in the Crimea. Roast beef follows the fish, with the old general and his wife at length even with the rest. Then come duck and claret, and finally dessert and champagne. The toast of the evening is drunk to the old general, who brightens as the meal advances. In the big reception-room, Turkish coffee is brought, which is poured from the brazen ladle and served in exquisite little cups without handles. “We got them in Damascus on one of our trips,” says the host. Conversation goes round the table. The official is in eager talk with Madame Karetnikov about a common friend in a smart Petersburg regiment, who has got badly in debt. “He ought to apply for a transfer to the Siberian service. The officers get more pay, and it costs less to live,” she is urging. “But for Serge we must consider how much greater is the cost of champagne here,” retorts the official. “We can marry him to Katinka, and make her father get him a promotion,” the sister suggests. “I think he ought to have left the army and gone into the contracting,--every contractor I know is as rich as sin and goes to Monte Carlo.” So the conversation rambles on. Cigarettes are passed. The hostess will not have one.