...
The music ceased. A dry voice whispered in her ear:--
"Great artist, that chap Rajewski. Had to leave Russia once because he
wouldn't play the Russian national hymn for the Czar. Bless me, but he
was almost sent to Siberia--and in irons too. Told me here in this very
room that he was much frightened. They lighted fires in Poland to honour
his patriotism. He acknowledged that _he_ would have played twenty
national hymns, but he couldn't remember the Russian one, or never knew
it--anyhow, he was christened a patriot, and all by a slip of the
memory. Now, that's luck, isn't it?"
She began to dislike this cynical old man with his depreciating tales of
genius. She knew that her idols often tottered on clay feet, but she
hated to be reminded of that disagreeable reality. She went to Monsieur
Rajewski and thanked him prettily in her cool new voice, and again the
princess nodded approval.
"She is _chic_, your little girl," she confided in her deep tones to
Mrs. Sheldam, whose tired New England face almost beamed at the
compliment.
"We were in Hamburg at the Zooelogical Garden; I always go to see
animals," declaimed the princess, in the midst of a thick silence.
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