“He knows a great deal,” admitted Maggie.

“Yes; and that is why he is sad.  Is it not so?”

Catrina sat staring into the fire, her strange, earnest eyes almost fierce in their concentration.

“Did she pretend that she loved him at first?” she asked suddenly.

Receiving no answer, she looked up and fixed her searching gaze on the face of her companion.  Maggie was looking straight in front of her in the direction of the fire, but not with eyes focussed to see any thing so near at hand.  She bore the scrutiny without flinching.  As soon as Catrina’s eyes were averted the mask-like stillness of her features relaxed.

“She does not take that trouble now,” added the Russian girl, in reply to her own question.  “Did you see her to-night when we were at the piano?  M. de Chauxville was talking to her.  They were keeping two conversations going at the same time.  I could see by their faces.  They said different things when the music was loud.  I hate her.  She is not true to Paul.  M. de Chauxville knows something about her.  They have something in common which is not known to Paul or to any of us!  Why do you not speak?  Why do you sit staring into the fire with your lips so close together?”

“Because I do not think that we shall gain any thing by discussing Paul and his wife.  It is no business of ours.”

Catrina laughed—­a lamentable, mirthless laugh.

“That is because she is your cousin; and he—­he is nothing to you.  You do not care whether he is happy or not!”

Catrina had turned upon her companion fiercely.  Maggie swung round in her chair to pick up her bracelets, which had slipped from her knees to the floor.

“You exaggerate things,” she said quietly.  “I see no reason to suppose that Paul is unhappy.  It is because you have taken this unreasoning dislike to her.”

She took a long time to collect three bracelets.  Then she rose and placed them on the dressing-table.

“Do you want me to go?” asked Catrina, in her blunt way.

“No,” answered Maggie, civilly enough; but she extracted a couple of hair-pins rather obviously.

Catrina heeded the voice and not the action.

“You English are all alike,” she said.  “You hold one at arm’s length.  I suppose there is some one in England for whom you care—­who is out of all this—­away from all the troubles of Russia.  This has nothing to do with your life.  It is only a passing incident—­a few weeks to be forgotten when you go back.  I wonder what he is like—­the man in England.  You need not tell me.  I am not curious in that way.  I am not asking you to tell me.  I am just wondering.  For I know there is some one.  I knew it when I first saw you.  You are so quiet, and settled, and self-contained—­like a person who has played a game and knows for certain that it is lost or won, and does not want to play again.  Your hair is very pretty; you are very pretty, you quiet English girl.  I wonder what you think about behind your steady eyes.”