And finally she arrived at St. Petersburg, and found her godmother
waiting for her on the platform. They recognized each other
immediately. Tamara had several photographs of the Princess Ardácheff.

"Welcome, _ma filleule_," that lady cried, while she shook her hand.
"After all these years I can have you in my house."

They said all sorts of mutually agreeable things on their way thither,
and they looked at each other shyly.

"She is not beautiful," ran the Princess' comments. "Though she has a
superb air of breeding--that is from her poor mother--but her eyes are
her father's eyes. She is very sweet, and what a lovely skin--yes, and
eyelashes--and probably a figure when one can see beneath the furs--
tall and very slender in any case. Yes, I am far from disappointed--
far."

And Tamara thought:

"My godmother is a splendid looking lady! I like her bright brown eyes
and that white hair; and what a queer black mole upon her left cheek,
like an early eighteenth-century beauty spot. Where have I heard lately
of someone with a mole------?

"You fortunately see our city with a fresh mantle of snow, Tamara," the
Princess said, glancing from the automobile window as they sped along.
"It is not, alas! always so white as this."

It appeared wonderful to Tamara--so quite unlike anything she had