“The French form of the name,” she explained. “It would be impossible
for any one in this country to pronounce the Russian form.”
He felt a fleeting doubt of this. He would have liked a try at it.
“And your name?” she asked.
“Hardy,” he said. “Winslow Hardy.”
She repeated it, and in spite of Russian ease in foreign tongues, she
certainly said “Vinslow.”
They arranged for an afternoon the next week, and they settled the
terms, which were high. Hardy was by no means well off, and his heart
sank a little at the thought of this expense; but a fine pity swayed
him. He would have made many sacrifices for this unhappy woman.
He had never before been conscious of this chivalry in himself. He had
been in love from time to time, but it had not been a disinterested
passion. He had always sought for the advantage. He had always been
kind, generous, a little idealistic in his dealings with his fellows;
but never before had he been really moved by pity.
He thought time and again of the poor Russian lady. In fact, he hardly
ever forgot her. He imagined the unhappy soul, with all her little
elegancies, living in squalor and anxiety, and his mind was busy with
schemes for her salvation. He planned to force or persuade every one he
knew to study Russian.