possible. And pouring out their tea, she began, with her released and happy volubility, to tell them again about herself; about her salon in Paris; her sons, who had been 'garçons charmants,' but 'très, très dissipés'; her one remaining child, a princess; a Russian princess, who had had to flee before the Bolsheviks to a refuge offered by a relative in South America. 'I shall never see her again, never,' she declared. 'And when we meet it is not always happy. She is like her father; she has a violent temper and is d'un égoïsme effrayant.—I am alone in the world; quite alone. And no one cares whether I live or die.'
