The Prince waved his hands.
"You travel, yes, but at best, most significantly, your lives are narrow. You are wives and mothers, living in ruts as well-defined as those of your most prosaic middle-class women. What do you know of the inner world, its moving affairs? Who of you can read the significance, open though it may be, of the cabled statement or speech of a prime minister, in relation to America?"
"Perhaps our opportunities or incentives do not exist," replied the girl gravely. "I have heard father say ours is a government of politicians and not statesmen."
"Precisely, that is it. But in Europe, where conditions are different, what do we find? Lady Campbell in Egypt—an American girl; the Princess Stein in St. Petersburg; the Marquise de Villiers in France; Lady Clanclaren in London—oh, scores, all American girls, some of whom have made their influence felt constructively, as I can personally assure you. American history is so uninteresting because there is not a woman in it."
"You know the Marquise de Villiers!" exclaimed the girl. "Won't you tell me, sometime, all about her? How interesting her story must be! I have heard garbled versions of the Berlin incident."
"I do know her," the Prince smiled, as he thought how intimate his knowledge was, "and I shall delight in telling you all about her sometime. But now," he continued, "allow me to carry on my thought. You travel—yes. You even live abroad as the, ah, butterfly—your own word—lives. I know. Have not I heard of you! Have I not followed you in the newspapers since I saw your face on canvas! I read from a dossier that I formulated concerning you." He drew a notebook from his pocket and glanced at the girl. "May I?"
"It is yours," was the reply.
"January," he read, "Miss W. is tobogganing in Switzerland. February, she is viewing the Battle of Flowers at Nice. March, she is at Monaco, at Monte Carlo—ah! April, Miss W. has arrived in Paris. May and June, she is in London. July, she is attending English race meetings with young Clanclaren—" the Prince paused with a sibilant expulsion of breath. "I must not read my comment."
"Yes, you must, please. I never heard of such a romantic Russian!"
The Prince raised his eyebrows and glanced at the book—"with young Clanclaren, damn him! August," continued Koltsoff hurriedly, drowning her subdued exclamation, "at Clanclaren's Scotch shooting box. September, she is again in England, deer stalking—most favored deer! October, November, she is riding to hounds in England. December, she is doing the grand tour of English country houses." The Prince paused. "So, our acquaintance—my acquaintance with you—is of more than a few days. I have known you for more than a year. Do you find it not agreeable?"