But Maggie Delafield was of different material from this impressionable, impulsive Russian girl.

She was essentially British in her capacity for steering a straight personal course through the shoals and quicksands of her neighbors' affairs, as also in the firm grip she held upon her own thoughts.

She was by no means prepared to open her mind to the first comer, and in her somewhat slow-going English estimate of such matters Catrina was as yet little more than the first comer.
She changed the subject, and they talked for some time on indifferent topics--such topics as have an interest for girls; and who are we that we may despise them?
We jeer very grandly at girls' talk, and promptly return to the discussion of our dogs and pipes and clothing.
But Catrina was not happy under this judicious treatment.

She had no one in the world to whom she could impart a thousand doubts and questions--a hundred grievances and one great grief.

And it was just this one great grief of which Maggie dreaded the mention.