"Generally," responded Alice; "but don't go. We wish to talk over our troika party."
Tom was all enthusiasm immediately; and before we left it was agreed that we should meet at Alice's for our troika ride, at nine o'clock the next evening.
When the night came it was bright starlight, and the mercury stood ten degrees above zero. We started in seven troikas, shortly after nine. Our driver wore the traditional peasant's cap; his face was deeply bronzed, while his beard and hair were a few shades darker. Madame Kirovieff,—who is five years my junior, as I afterwards discovered,—Tom, Mr. Thurber, and Sacha, were in the vehicle with me.
We were wrapped up to our eyes, our feet put into fur muffs, the robes tucked in about us, and off we started, with a yell from the driver and a whoop from Tom. That young man behaved as if he were not more than ten years old. He screamed at the driver in Russian,—of which he knows about six words,—and every time I opened my mouth to remonstrate, he insisted upon it that I should take cold if I spoke, and drowned my voice in a sea of warnings.
Once outside the city, with a clear road ahead, the driver emitted a series of whoops, and started the horses off at a rattling pace. The gentlemen all began calling to him, and I supposed they were heaping abuse upon his head; but when it was translated I was relieved to find that the most severe remark they had made was, "Go on, my beauty!" Away we flew, over the sparkling snow, to the islands; past empty houses,
