“No,” said Sonia.
“I don’t mean here in France, but in your own country.... Surely you have some in Russia?”
“No, not a soul. You see, my father was a Revolutionist. He died in Siberia when I was a baby. And my mother, she died too—in Paris. She had fled from Russia. I was two years old when she died.”
“It must be hard to be alone like that,” said the Duke.
“No,” said Sonia, with a faint smile, “I don’t mind having no relations. I grew used to that so young ... so very young. But what is hard—but you’ll laugh at me—”
“Heaven forbid!” said the Duke gravely.
“Well, what is hard is, never to get a letter ... an envelope that one opens ... from some one who thinks about one—”
She paused, and then added gravely: “But I tell myself that it’s nonsense. I have a certain amount of philosophy.”
She smiled at him—an adorable child’s smile.
The Duke smiled too. “A certain amount of philosophy,” he said softly. “You look like a philosopher!”