She opened a door at the other side. The gold flames of a log fire played upon the face of the little gray-haired woman in dusky silk who rose to greet her.
“Mother,” said Parsinova, “kiss your child and thank Mr. Kane. I think I’ve made a hit.”
Oswald Kane watched with a frown as she held out her arms adoringly to the little old woman.
For over a year the little mother had had a way of appearing in the background whenever he claimed the few sentimental hours which should have been but small acknowledgment of his new pupil’s debt to him.
[25]
]CHAPTER III
Parsinova instantly became the rage.
She gave delicious interviews in which she misapplied American slang in a way that made the press chuckle. She spoke of the tragedy of Russia. She told of her struggles there. She gave her impressions of the American theater; American art; American fashions; the energy of the American man; the vitality of the American woman.
“They do not give as we foreign women,” she said. “They take. And so it is that they grow rich—in beauty—and are forever young.”
“But emotionally?” prompted the interviewer.
“I have said—they are forever young. Emotionally—they are children always.”