The Countess Lanovitch and Catrina were sitting together in the too-luxurious drawing-room that overlooked the English Quay and the Neva.  The double windows were rigorously closed, while the inner panes were covered with a thick rime.  The sun was just setting over the marshes that border the upper waters of the Gulf of Finland, and lit up the snow-clad city with a rosy glow which penetrated to the room where the two women sat.

Catrina was restless, moving from chair to chair, from fire-place to window, with a lack of repose which would certainly have touched the nerves of a less lethargic person than the countess.

“My dear child!” that lady was exclaiming with lackadaisical horror, “we cannot go to Thors yet.  The thought is too horrible.  You never think of my health.  Besides, the gloom of the everlasting snow is too painful.  It makes me think of your poor mistaken father, who is probably shovelling it in Siberia.  Here, at all events, one can avoid the window ­one need not look at it.”

“The policy of shutting one’s eyes is a mistake,” said Catrina.

She had risen, and was standing by the window, her stunted form being framed, as it were, in a rosy glow of pink.

The countess heaved a little sigh and gazed idly at the fire.  She did not understand Catrina.  She was afraid of her.  There was something rugged and dogged which the girl had inherited from her father ­that Slavonic love of pain for its own sake ­which makes Russian patriots and thinkers strange, incomprehensible beings.

“I question it, Catrina,” said the elder lady; “but perhaps it is a matter of health.  Dr. Stantovitch told me, quite between ourselves, that if I had given way to my grief at the time of the trial he would not have held himself responsible for the consequences.”

“Dr. Stantovitch,” said Catrina, “is a humbug.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed the countess, “he attends all the noble ladies of Petersburg.”

“Precisely,” answered Catrina.

She was woman enough to enter into futile arguments with her mother, and man enough to despise herself for doing it.

“Why do you want to go back to Thors so soon?” murmured the elder lady, with a little sigh of despair.  She knew she was playing a losing game very badly.  She was mentally shuddering at the recollection of former sleigh-journeying from Tver to Thors.

“Because I am sure father would like us to be there this hard winter.”

“But your father is in Siberia,” put in the countess, which remark was ignored.

“Because if we do not go before the snow begins to melt we shall have to do the journey in carriages over bad roads, which is sure to knock you up.  Because our place is at Thors, and no one wants us here.  I hate Petersburg.  It is no use living here unless one is rich and beautiful and popular.  We are none of those things, so we are better at Thors.”

“But we have many nice friends here, dear.  You will see, this afternoon.  I expect quite a reception.  By the way, I hope Kupfer has sent the little cakes.  Your father used to be so fond of them.  I wonder if we could send him a box to Siberia.  He would enjoy them, poor man!  He might give some to the prison people, and thus obtain a little alleviation.  Yes; the Comte de Chauxville said he would come on my first reception-day, and, of course, Paul and his wife must return my call.  They will come to-day.  I am anxious to see her.  They say she is beautiful and dresses well.”

Catrina’s broad white teeth gleamed for a moment in the flickering firelight, as she clenched them over her lower lip.

“And therefore Paul’s happiness in life is assured,” she said, in a hard voice.

“Of course.  What more could he want?” murmured the countess, in blissful ignorance of any irony.

Catrina looked at her mother with a gleam of utter contempt in her eyes.  That is one of the privileges of a great love, whether it bring happiness or misery ­the contempt for all who have never known it.

While they remained thus the sound of sleigh-bells on the quiet English Quay made itself heard through the double windows.  There was a clang of many tones, and the horses pulled up with a jerk.  The color left Catrina’s face quite suddenly, as if wiped away, leaving her ghastly.  She was going to see Paul and his wife.

Presently the door opened, and Etta came into the room with the indomitable assurance which characterized her movements and earned for her a host of feminine enemies.

“Mme. la Comtesse,” she said, with her most gracious smile, taking the limp hand offered to her by the Countess Lanovitch.

Catrina stood in the embrasure of the window, hating her.

Paul followed on his wife’s heels, scarcely concealing his boredom.  He was not a society man.  Catrina came forward and exchanged a formal bow with Etta, who took in her plainness and the faults of her dress at one contemptuous glance.  She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figure for no figure at all.  Paul was shaking hands with the countess.  When he took Catrina’s hand her fingers were icy, and twitched nervously within his grasp.

The countess was already babbling to Etta in French.  The Princess Howard Alexis always began by informing Paul’s friends that she knew no Russian.  For a moment Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone.  When the countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy her voice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated any other conversation that might be going on in the room.

“I wish you happiness,” said Catrina, and no one heard her but Paul.  She did not raise her eyes to his, but looked vaguely at his collar.  Her voice was short and rather breathless, as if she had just emerged from deep water.

“Thank you,” answered Paul simply.

He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife.  Catrina’s thoughts followed his.  A man is at a disadvantage in the presence of the woman who loves him.  She usually sees through him ­a marked difference between masculine and feminine love.  Catrina looked up sharply and caught his eyes resting on Etta.

“He does not love her ­he does not love her!” was the thought that instantly leaped into her brain.

And if she had said it to him he would have contradicted her flatly and honestly, and in vain.

“Yes,” the countess was saying with lazy volubility; “Paul is one of our oldest friends.  We are neighbors in the country, you know.  He has always been in and out of our house like one of the family.  My poor husband was very fond of him.”

“Is your husband dead, then?” asked Etta in a low voice, with a strange haste.

“No; he is only in Siberia.  You have perhaps heard of his misfortune ­Count Stepan Lanovitch.”

Etta nodded her head with the deepest sympathy.

“I feel for you, countess,” she said.  “And yet you are so brave ­and mademoiselle,” she said, turning to Catrina.  “I hope we shall see more of each other in Tver.”

Catrina bowed jerkily and made no reply.  Etta glanced at her sharply.  Perhaps she saw more than Catrina knew.

“I suppose,” she said to the countess, with that inclusive manner which spreads the conversation out, “that Paul and Mlle. de Lanovitch were playmates?”

The reply lay with either of the ladies, but Catrina turned away.

“Yes,” answered the countess; “but Catrina is only twenty-four ­ten years younger than Paul.”

“Indeed!” with a faint, cutting surprise.

Indeed Etta looked younger than Catrina.  On a l’âgé de son coeur, and if the heart be worn it transmits its weariness to the face, where such signs are ascribed to years.  So the little stab was justified by Catrina’s appearance.

While the party assembled were thus exchanging social amenities, a past master in such commerce joined them in the person of Claude de Chauxville.

He smiled his mechanical, heartless smile upon them all, but when he bowed over Etta’s hand his face was grave.  He expressed no surprise at seeing Paul and Etta, though his manner betokened that emotion.  There was no sign of this meeting having been a prearranged matter, brought about by himself through the easy and innocent instrumentality of the countess.

“And you are going to Tver, no doubt?” he said almost at once to Etta.

“Yes,” answered that lady, with a momentary hunted look in her eyes.  It is strange how an obscure geographical name may force its way into our lives, never to be forgotten.  Queen Mary of England struck a note of the human octave when she protested that the word “Calais” was graven on her heart.  It seemed to Etta that “Tver” was written large wheresoever she turned, for the conscience looks through a glass and sees whatever may be written thereon overspreading every prospect.

“The prince,” continued De Chauxville, turning to Paul, “is a great sportsman, I am told ­a mighty hunter.  I wonder why Englishmen always want to kill something.”

Paul smiled, without making an immediate answer.  He was not the man to be led into the danger of repartee by such as De Chauxville.

“We have a few bears left,” he said.

“You are fortunate,” protested De Chauxville.  “I shot one when I was younger.  I was immensely afraid, and so was the bear.  I have a great desire to try again.”

Etta glanced at Paul, who returned De Chauxville’s bland gaze with all the imperturbability of a prince.

The countess’s cackling voice broke in at this juncture, as perhaps De Chauxville had intended it to do.

“Then why not come and shoot ours?” she said.  “We have quite a number of them in the forests at Thors.”

“Ah, Mme. la Comtesse,” he answered, with outspread, deprecatory hands, “but that would be taking too great an advantage of your hospitality and your well-known kindness.”

He turned to Catrina, who received him with a half-concealed frown.  The countess bridled and looked at her daughter with obvious maternal meaning, as one who was saying, “There ­you bungled your prince, but I have procured you a baron.”

“The abuse of hospitality is the last refuge of the needy,” continued De Chauxville oracularly.  “But my temptation is strong; shall I yield to it, mademoiselle?”

Catrina smiled unwillingly.

“I would rather leave it to your own conscience,” she said.  “But I fail to see the danger you anticipate.”

“Then I accept, madame,” said De Chauxville, with the engaging frankness which ever had a false ring in it.

If the whole affair had been prearranged in Claude de Chauxville’s mind, it certainly succeeded more fully than is usually the case with human schemes.  If, on the other hand, this invitation was the result of chance, Fortune had favored Claude de Chauxville beyond his deserts.

The little scene had played itself out before the eyes of Paul, who did not want it; of Etta, who desired it; and of Catrina, who did not exactly know what she wanted, with the precision of a stage-play carefully rehearsed.

Claude de Chauxville had unscrupulously made use of feminine vanity with all the skill that was his.  A little glance toward Etta, as he accepted the invitation, conveyed to her the fact that she was the object of his clever little plot; that it was in order to be near her that he had forced the Countess Lanovitch to invite him to Thors; and Etta, with all her shrewdness, was promptly hoodwinked.  Vanity is a handicap assigned to clever women by Fate, who handicaps us all without appeal.  De Chauxville saw by a little flicker of the eyelids that he had not missed his mark.  He had hit Etta where his knowledge of her told him she was unusually vulnerable.  He had made one ally.  The countess he looked upon with a wise contempt.  She was easier game than Etta.  Catrina he understood well enough.  Her rugged simplicity had betrayed her secret to him before he had been five minutes in the room.  Paul he despised as a man lacking finesse and esprit ­a truly French form of contempt.  For Frenchmen have yet to learn that such qualities have remarkably little to do with love.

Claude de Chauxville was one of those men ­alas! too many ­who owe their success in life almost entirely to some feminine influence or another.  Whenever he came into direct opposition to men it was his instinct to retire from the field.  Behind Paul’s back he despised him; before his face he cringed.

“Then, perhaps,” he said, when the princess was engaged in the usual farewells with the countess, and Paul was moving toward the door ­“then, perhaps, prince, we may meet again before the spring ­if the countess intends her invitation to be taken seriously.”

“Yes,” answered Paul; “I often shoot at Thors.”

“If you do not happen to come over, perhaps I may be allowed to call and pay my respects ­or is the distance too great?”

“You can do it in an hour and a half with a quick horse, if the snow is good,” answered Paul.

“Then I may make it au revoir?” enquired De Chauxville, holding out a frank hand.

“Au revoir,” said Paul, “if you wish it.”

And he turned to say good-by to Catrina.

As De Chauxville had arrived later than the other visitors, it was quite natural that he should remain after they had left, and it may be safely presumed that he took good care to pin the Countess Lanovitch down to her rash invitation.

“Why is that man coming to Tver?” said Paul, rather gruffly, when Etta and he were settled beneath the furs of the sleigh.  “We do not want him there.”

“I expect,” replied Etta rather petulantly, “that we shall be so horribly dull that even M. de Chauxville will be a welcome alleviation.”

Paul said nothing.  He gave a little sign to the driver, and the horses leaped forward with a musical clash of their silver bells.