"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian."
"Ah," I said, "now I understand—"
"Understand what?"
"A hint of something foreign—different—that there has always been about you."
"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death—she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life—I loved it."
There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old
