A maid in a neat dark dress put a tray with tea in glasses, and sugar and lemon, on a low stool beside her mistress, and Valeria Petrovna drew Simon down on to the divan beside her.
“Now tell me,” she commanded, “why, Mistaire Aron, you — come to Russia?”
“Simon,” he corrected, gently.
“Simon!” She went off into fits of laughter. “Simon — that ees good — you know why I laugh?”
“Ner —” he confessed, puzzled.
“It ees the childhood rhyme I learn when I have an English nurse: ‘Simple Simon met a pieman, going to a fair; said Simple Simon to the pieman, what ’ave you got there?’“ and once more she dissolved into tears of childish laughter.
“Now look here,” Simon protested, “that’s quite enough of that!” but he smiled his kind, indulgent smile at her teasing.
“What ees a pieman?” she inquired, seriously.
“Chap who makes pies,” Simon grinned from ear to ear; “you know — cakes, puddings, and all that.”
“All, well, I am glad I am not a pieman! Tell me, little Simon, what are you?”