“We think,” said Prince Alexander Suvaroff slowly, and with a touch of embarrassment, “that England, and other countries, made a mistake in supporting the attacks of men like Wrangel and Denikin. Bad as the Bolsheviks are, as God knows, the leaders of the White Armies were, perhaps, equally corrupt. My son expresses the thought of the younger generation.”
“It is mine, certainly,” said Nadia.
The son only stayed a few minutes. He had just called in to have the pleasure of meeting the Englishman, and to kiss his father and mother. Soon after his going, Bertram rose to take his leave.
“But you will never find your way back!” cried Princess Alexandra.
“I will guide him to the Arbat,” said her daughter.
In spite of Bertram’s protests, she put on her fur cap and coat again, and waited while he said good night to her father and mother. The old man rose again from his packing-case.
“If you would call upon us now and then, it would be a charity, sir. We know nothing of the outer world.”
“With pleasure!” said Bertram.
He kissed the old lady’s hand again, and at this sign of regard and sympathy her eyes moistened.
“You have seen the old régime in their poor hovels,” she said. “The others are like us or worse.”