Reginald sat in a corner of the Princess's salon and tried to forgive the furniture, which started out with an obvious intention of being Louis Quinze, but relapsed at frequent intervals into Wilhelm II. He classified the Princess with that distinct type of woman that looks as if it habitually went out to feed hens in the rain. Her name was Olga; she kept what she hoped and believed to be a fox-terrier, and professed what she thought were Socialist opinions. It is not necessary to be called Olga if you are a Russian Princess; in fact, Reginald knew quite a number who were called Vera; but the fox-terrier and the Socialism are essential. "The Countess Lomshen keeps a bull-dog," said the Princess suddenly. "In England is it more chic to have a bull-dog than a fox-terrier?" Reginald threw his mind back over the canine fashions of the last ten years and gave an evasive answer. "Do you think her handsome, the Countess Lomshen?" asked the Princess. Reginald thought the Countess's complexion suggested an exclusive diet of macaroons and pale sherry. He said so. "But that cannot be possible," said the Princess triumphantly; "I've seen her eating fish-soup at Donon's." The Princess always defended a friend's complexion if it was really bad. With her, as with a great many of her sex, charity began at homeliness and did not generally progress much farther. Reginald withdrew his macaroon and sherry theory, and became interested in a case of miniatures.