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Mila spoke:--
"I fear I must leave you. I am studying to-night and--I go early to
rest. Pray dine as well as you can, with such a chef." She smiled
mischievously at her uncle, courtesied in peasant fashion to the
bewildered Gerald, who put out his hand, fain to touch hers, and
disappeared. The prince gazed inquiringly at the young man.
"Revolutionists soon become friends, do they not? The Princess Mila is
part Russian, part Roumanian,--my sister married a Roumanian,--hence her
implacable political attitude. I can't lead her back to civilized
thinking. She sees war in the moon, sun, and stars. And I--I have
forsworn violence. Ah! if I could only make the prince change.
Bakounine's death had no effect; Netschajew's fate did not move him; nor
was Illowski's mad attempt to burn down Paris with his incendiary
symphony an example to our prince that those who take up the sword
perish by the sword. Ah, Tolstoy, dear Leon Nikolaievitch, you showed me
the true way to master the world by love and not by hate! Until I
read--but there, it's late.


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