With the slightest encouragement, Catrina would have told her companion all that had passed.  The sympathy between women is so strong that there is usually only one man who is safe from discussion.  In Catrina’s case that one man was not Claude de Chauxville.  But Maggie Delafield was of different material from this impressionable, impulsive Russian girl.  She was essentially British in her capacity for steering a straight personal course through the shoals and quicksands of her neighbors’ affairs, as also in the firm grip she held upon her own thoughts.  She was by no means prepared to open her mind to the first comer, and in her somewhat slow-going English estimate of such matters Catrina was as yet little more than the first comer.

She changed the subject, and they talked for some time on indifferent topics—­such topics as have an interest for girls; and who are we that we may despise them?  We jeer very grandly at girls’ talk, and promptly return to the discussion of our dogs and pipes and clothing.

But Catrina was not happy under this judicious treatment.  She had no one in the world to whom she could impart a thousand doubts and questions—­a hundred grievances and one great grief.  And it was just this one great grief of which Maggie dreaded the mention.  She was quite well aware of its existence—­had been aware of it for some time.  Karl Steinmetz had thrown out one or two vague hints; everything pointed to it.  Maggie could hardly be ignorant of the fact that Catrina had grown to womanhood loving Paul.

A score of times Catrina approached the subject, and with imperturbable steadfastness Maggie held to her determination that Paul was not to be discussed by them.  She warded, she evaded, she ignored with a skill which baffled the simple Russian.  She had a hundred subterfuges—­a hundred skilful turns and twists.  Where women learn these matters, Heaven only knows!  All our experience of the world, our falls and stumbles on the broken road of life, never teach us some things that are known to the veriest schoolgirl standing on the smoother footpath that women tread.

At last Catrina rose to go.  Maggie rose also.  Women are relentless where they fight for their own secrets.  Maggie morally turned Catrina out of the room.  The two girls stood looking at each other for a moment.  They had nothing in common.  The language in which they understood each other best was the native tongue of neither.  Born in different countries, each of a mixed race with no one racial strain in common, neither creed, nor education, nor similarity of thought had aught to draw them together.  They looked at each other, and God’s hand touched them.  They both loved the same man.  They did not hate each other.

“Have you every thing you want?” asked Catrina.

The question was startling.  Catrina’s speech was ever abrupt.  At first Maggie did not understand.

“Yes, thanks,” she answered.  “I am very tired.  I suppose it is the snow.”