"I don't mean here in France, but in your own country. . . . Surely
you have some in Russia?"

"No, not a soul. You see, my father was a Revolutionist. He died in
Siberia when I was a baby. And my mother, she died too--in Paris.
She had fled from Russia. I was two years old when she died."

"It must be hard to be alone like that," said the Duke.

"No," said Sonia, with a faint smile, "I don't mind having no
relations. I grew used to that so young . . . so very young. But
what is hard--but you'll laugh at me--"

"Heaven forbid!" said the Duke gravely.

"Well, what is hard is, never to get a letter . . . an envelope that
one opens . . . from some one who thinks about one--"

She paused, and then added gravely: "But I tell myself that it's
nonsense. I have a certain amount of philosophy."

She smiled at him--an adorable child's smile.

The Duke smiled too. "A certain amount of philosophy," he said
softly. "You look like a philosopher!"

As they stood looking at one another with serious eyes, almost with
eyes that probed one another's souls, the drawing-room door flung
open, and Germaine's harsh voice broke on their ears.