“It will be better presently,” gasped Catrina, wrestling with her fractious little Tartar thoroughbreds, “when we get out on to the high-road.”

De Chauxville sat quite still.  If he felt any misgiving as to her power of mastering her team he kept it to himself.  There was a subtle difference in his manner toward Catrina when they were alone together, a suggestion of camaraderie, of a common interest and a common desire, of which she was conscious without being able to put definite meaning to it.

It annoyed and alarmed her.  While giving her full attention to the management of the sleigh, she was beginning to dread the first words of this man, who was merely wielding a cheap power acquired in the shady course of his career.  There is nothing so disarming as the assumed air of intimate knowledge of one’s private thoughts and actions.  De Chauxville assumed this air with a skill against which Catrina’s dogged strength of character was incapable of battling.  His manner conveyed the impression that he knew more of Catrina’s inward thoughts than any other living being, and she was simple enough to be frightened into the conclusion that she had betrayed herself to him.  There is no simpler method of discovering a secret than to ignore its existence.

It is possible that De Chauxville became aware of Catrina’s sidelong glances of anxiety in his direction.  He may have divined that silence was more effective than speech.

He sat looking straight in front of him, as if too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to take even a passing interest in the scenery.

“Why did you come here?” asked Catrina suddenly.

De Chauxville seemed to awake from a revery.  He turned and looked at her in assumed surprise.  They were on the high-road now, where the snow was beaten down, so conversation was easy.

“But—­to see you, mademoiselle.”

“I am not that sort of girl,” answered Catrina coldly.  “I want the truth.”

De Chauxville gave a short laugh and looked at her.

“Prophets and kings have sought the truth, mademoiselle, and have not found it,” he said lightly.

Catrina made no answer to this.  Her ponies required considerable attention.  Also, there are some minds like large banking houses—­not dealing in small change.  That which passes in or out of such minds has its own standard of importance.  Such people are not of much use in these days, when we like to touch things lightly, adorning a tale but pointing no moral.

“I would ask you to believe that your society was one incentive to make me accept the countess’s kind hospitality,” the Frenchman observed after a pause.

“And?”

De Chauxville looked at her.  He had not met many women of solid intellect.

“And?” repeated Catrina.

“I have others, of course.”

Catrina gave a little nod and waited.

“I wish to be near Alexis,” added De Chauxville.