Lucy Harding by Mary Jane Holmes

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.