Katerin wore her old black dress. Peter knew at once that it was not a cast-off garment such as might be given to a serving girl by a woman of the upper class—it was obviously her own garment, cut and made especially for her. Though the material was old, he knew it for fine stuff, probably imported. A real American might have been deceived into the belief that this woman was nothing but a servant; Peter, however, knew that such a delicate face, such fine features, such a carriage of a proud head were to be found only among the nobility of his native country. If she had been sent to watch him, he knew that whoever had sent her could not know that he was a native Russian—it was presumed that he was an American so unfamiliar with Russia as to be easily misled. He smiled as he watched her. She handled the crude dishes as if they were of the most fragile china or of fine glass. She put down the heavy blue sugar-urn gently; she transferred the tea-glass, which was made from the bottom of a bottle, from the tray to the table with infinite care. She laid out the old brass spoon beside the heavy plate on the dingy cloth as if instead of being brass it were of the finest silver. He noted her hands. The fingers were slender—and clean. The nails were polished. Her black hair, braided down her back and tied with a bit of velvet black ribbon, had a sheen which indicated the care which had been given to it. And the low collar of her gown revealed the fine texture of her skin. Having arranged the dishes on the table, Katerin stood with her back to Peter, hands on hips and watching the teapot atop the samovar. This was all in startling contrast to the abrupt manner of the other girl, who had dumped the things down upon the table and departed. This new girl seemed suspiciously solicitous about the comfort of the American—and was possessed of plenty of time for lingering in the rooms of guests! Peter walked to the table, and sat down with his back to the window. She remained standing before the samovar in thoughtful attitude, disregarding him. He saw that her face showed traces of strain—a pallor which was not natural to her skin and a gauntness about her eyes which gave her a sad and melancholy expression. Presently she picked up the blue sugar-urn as if to put it better within his reach. “Ah!” said Peter, rubbing his hands and smiling up at her. “On cold mornings like this one the song of the samovar makes pretty music in our ears!” It was an old saying of his father’s—and Peter spoke the Russian words with casual rapidity, for he wanted to see what she would think of him—an American who spoke Russian as only one born under the Czar could speak it.