It was safe to presume that she was rich from the manner in which she dressed, the number of servants and horses she kept, the general air of wealth which pervaded her existence. That she was beautiful any one could see for himself--not in the shop-windows, among the presumably self-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper place--namely, in her own and other aristocratic drawing-rooms. She was talking to a tall, fair Frenchman--in perfect French--and was herself nearly as tall as he. Bright brown hair waved prettily back from a white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one of those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a steadiness of nerve, never change. Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive, mobile mouth, a neck of dazzling white. Such was Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in the prime of her youth. "And you maintain that it is five years since we met," she was saying to the tall Frenchman. "Have I not counted every day?" he replied. "I do not know," she answered, with a little laugh, that little laugh which tells wise men where flattery may be shot like so much conversational rubbish. Some women are fathomless pits, the rubbish never seems to fill them. "I do not know, but I should not think so." "Well, madam, it is so. Witness these gray hairs. Ah! those were happy days in St. Petersburg." Mrs. Sydney Bamborough smiled--a pleasant society smile, not too pronounced and just sufficient to suggest pearly teeth. At the mention of St. Petersburg she glanced round to see that they were not overheard. She gave a little shiver. "Don't speak of Russia!" she pleaded. "I hate to hear it mentioned. I was so happy. It is painful to remember." Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed to one of gay delight. She nodded and smiled toward a tall man who was evidently looking for her, and took no notice of the Frenchman's apologies. "Who _is_ that?" asked the young man. "I see him everywhere lately." "A mere English gentleman, Mr. Paul Howard Alexis," replied the lady. The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. He knew better. This was no plain English gentleman. He bowed and took his leave. M. de Chauxville of the French Embassy was watching every movement, every change of expression, from across the room.