“I am glad your grandfather brought French architects here and built the modern side,” she said.  “These rooms are, of course, very interesting, but gloomy—­horribly gloomy, Paul.  There is a smell of ghosts and dulness.”

“All the same, I like these rooms,” answered Paul.  “Steinmetz and I used to live entirely on this side of the house.  This is the smoking-room.  We shot those bears, and all the deer.  That is a wolf’s head.  He killed a keeper before I finished him off.”

Etta looked at her husband with a curious little smile.  She sometimes felt proud of him, despite the ever present knowledge that, intellectually speaking, she was his superior.  There was something strong and simple and manly in a sort of mediaeval way that pleased her in this big husband of hers.

“And how did you finish him off?” she asked.

“I choked him.  That bear knocked me down, but Steinmetz shot him.  We were four days out in the open after that elk.  This is a lynx—­a queer face—­rather like De Chauxville; the dogs killed him.”

“But why do you not paper the room,” asked Etta, with a shiver, “instead of this gloomy panelling?  It is so mysterious and creepy.  Quite suggestive of secret passages.”

“There are no secret passages,” answered Paul.  “But there is a room behind here.  This is the door.  I will show it to you presently.  I have things in there I want to show you.  I keep all my medicines and appliances in there.  It is our secret surgery and office.  In that room the Charity League was organized.”

Etta turned away suddenly and went to the narrow window, where she sat on a low window-seat, looking down into the snow-clad depths.

“I did not know you were a doctor,” she said.

“I doctor the peasants,” replied Paul, “in a rough-and-ready way.  I took my degree on purpose.  But, of course, they do not know that it is I; they think I am a doctor from Moscow.  I put on an old coat, and wear a scarf, so that they cannot see my face.  I only go to them at night.  It would never do for the Government to know that we attempt to do good to the peasants.  We have to keep it a secret even from the people themselves.  And they hate us.  They groan and hoot when we drive through the village.  But they never attempt to do us any harm; they are too much afraid of us.”

When Etta rose and came toward him her face was colorless.

“Let me see this room,” she said.

He opened the door and followed her into the apartment, which has already been described.  Here he told further somewhat bald details of the work he had attempted to do.  It is to be feared that he made neither an interesting nor a romantic story of it.  There were too many details—­too much statistic, and no thrilling realism whatever.  The experiences of a youthful curate in Bethnal Green would have made high tragedy beside the tale that this man told his wife of the land upon which God has assuredly laid His curse—­Aceldama, the field of blood.