That night Jack wrote in his journal:
“Had a drive with Sophie in a dandy turnout. Everybody was out, and everybody looked at us, especially at Sophie.
“I tell you what, that girl is a brick! And what a lot of people she bowed to on the Nevsky, and down in that street where we went hunting for Ursula. Everybody seemed to know her. I’ll bet she’s a real nihilist, and has a whole crowd of followers. I’m glad that gendarme is not at home. He might be nabbing her. We are going there to-morrow night to supper. Auntie does not act as if she wanted to go; says she feels as if something was going to happen. What rot! I’m afraid she’s getting old and nervous. I wish something would happen.”
CHAPTER X.
ONE EVENING.
Madame Scholaskie’s rooms were on a side street in an apartment house, which was in striking contrast to the house on the Nevsky, where fifty or sixty servants had done their mistress’ bidding. There seemed to be but one here, a woman wrinkled and old, but straight as an arrow, with a keen look in her eyes as if she were always on the alert and ready for whatever might come. The Scholaskies’ rooms were on the third floor, and surprised us with their handsome furnishings, from the golden-framed icon to the ivy-covered screen which shut off one end of the salon. Madame, too, was a surprise, as, with her snow-white hair, her piercing, black eyes, and faded, velvet gown, which told of better days, she came forward to greet us. If not an aristocrat, as the Russians understand the term, she was a lady born, and showed it in her manner, her language and her voice.
Supper was announced soon after our arrival, and, if there were not many courses, it had been daintily cooked, and was served by old Drusa with the deftness of a younger person. Everything was perfect, from the linen to the silver and china.
When supper was over, and we returned to the drawing room, where we had tea, madame took from her pocket a paper, yellow and worn, and, holding it toward me, said:
“You sent me this three years ago.”
I recognized it as the note I had written for the beggar, and answered in the affirmative.
“But how do you know I am the one who sent it?” I asked.