MME. PAUL SENSOBIAREFF
“The French form of the name,” she explained. “It would be impossible for any one in this country to pronounce the Russian form.”
He felt a fleeting doubt of this. He would have liked a try at it.
“And your name?” she asked.
“Hardy,” he said. “Winslow Hardy.”
She repeated it, and in spite of Russian ease in foreign tongues, she certainly said “Vinslow.”
They arranged for an afternoon the next week, and they settled the terms, which were high. Hardy was by no means well off, and his heart sank a little at the thought of this expense; but a fine pity swayed him. He would have made many sacrifices for this unhappy woman.
He had never before been conscious of this chivalry in himself. He had been in love from time to time, but it had not been a disinterested passion. He had always sought for the advantage. He had always been kind, generous, a little idealistic in his dealings with his fellows; but never before had he been really moved by pity.
He thought time and again of the poor Russian lady. In fact, he hardly ever forgot her. He imagined the unhappy soul, with all her little elegancies, living in squalor and anxiety, and his mind was busy with schemes for her salvation. He planned to force or persuade every one he knew to study Russian.