She turned and looked at herself in the mirror.  No one knew how she had tried one dress after another since luncheon, alone in her two rooms, having sent her maid down stairs.  No one knew the bitterness in this girl’s heart as she contemplated her own reflection.

She went slowly down stairs to the long, dimly lighted drawing-room.  As she entered she heard her mother’s cackling voice.

“Yes, princess,” the countess was saying, “it is a quaint old house; little more than a fortified farm, I know.  But my husband’s family were always strange.  They seem always to have ignored the little comforts and elegancies of life.”

“It is most interesting,” answered Etta’s voice, and Catrina stepped forward into the light.

Formal greetings were exchanged, and Catrina saw Etta look anxiously toward the door through which she had just come.  She thought that she was looking for her husband.  But it was Claude de Chauxville for whose appearance Etta was waiting.

Paul and Steinmetz entered at the same moment by another door, and Catrina, who was talking to Maggie in English, suddenly stopped.

“Ah, Catrina,” said Paul, “we have broken new ground for you.  There was no track from here to Osterno through the forest.  I made one this afternoon, so you have no excuse for remaining away, now.”

“Thank you,” answered Catrina, withdrawing her cold hand hurriedly from his friendly grasp.

“Miss Delafield,” went on Paul, “admires our country as much as you do.”

“I was just telling mademoiselle,” said Maggie, speaking French with an honest English accent.

Paul nodded, and left them together.

“Yes,” the countess was saying at the other end of the gloomy room; “yes, we are greatly attached to Thors:  Catrina, perhaps, more than I. I have some happy associations, and many sorrowful ones.  But then—­mon Dieu!—­how isolated we are!”

“It is rather far from—­anywhere,” acceded Etta, who was not attending, although she appeared to be interested.

“Far!  Princess, I often wonder how Paris and Thors can be in the same world!  Before our—­our troubles we used to live in Paris a portion of the year.  At least I did, while my poor husband travelled about.  He had a hobby, you know, poor man!  Humanity was his hobby.  I have always found that men who seek to do good to their fellows are never thanked.  Have you noticed that?  The human race is not grateful en gros.  There is a little gratitude in the individual, but none in the race.”

“None,” answered Etta absently.

“It was so with the Charity League,” went on the countess volubly.  She paused and looked round with her feeble eyes.

“We are all friends,” she went on; “so it is safe to mention the Charity League, is it not?”

“No,” answered Steinmetz from the fire-place; “no, madame.  There is only one friend to whom you may safely mention that.”