The sun had set long ago.  The short twilight lay over the snow-covered land with a chill hopelessness.  Steinmetz looked at his watch.  They had been together an hour—­one of those hours that count as years in a life time.  He had to peer into the face of the watch in order to see the hands.  The room was almost dark, and no servant ever came to it, unless summoned.

Paul was looking down at his companion, as if waiting to hear the time.  At great moments we are suddenly brought face to face with the limits of human nature.  It is at such moments that we find that we are not gods, but only men.  We can only feel to a certain extent, only suffer up to a certain point.

“We must dress for dinner,” said Steinmetz.  “Afterward—­well, afterward we shall see.”

“Yes,” answered Paul.  And he did not go.

The two men stood looking at each other for a moment.  They had passed through much together—­danger, excitement, and now they were dabbling in sorrow.  It would appear that this same sorrow runs like a river across the road of our life.  Some of us find the ford and plash through the shallows—­shallow ourselves—­while others flounder into deep water.  These are they who look right on to the greater events, and fail to note the trivial details of each little step.  Paul was wading through the deep water, and this good friend of his was not inclined to stand upon the bank.  It is while passing through this river that Fortune sends some of us a friend, who is ever afterward different from all others.

Paul stood looking down at the broad, heavy face of the man who loved him like a father.  It was not easy for him to speak.  He seemed to be making an effort.

“I do not want you to think,” he said at last, “that it is as bad as it might have been.  It might have been worse—­much worse—­had I not made a mistake in regard to my own feelings when I married her.  I will try and do the right thing by her.  Only at present there does not seem to be much left, except you.”

Steinmetz looked up with his quaintly resigned smile.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I am there always.”

CHAPTER XXXIX

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Karl Steinmetz had shown the depth of his knowledge of men and women when he commented on that power of facing danger with an unruffled countenance which he was pleased to attribute to English ladies above all women.  During the evening he had full opportunity of verifying his own observations.

Etta came down to dinner smiling and imperturbable.  On the threshold of the drawing-room she exchanged a glance with Karl Steinmetz; and that was all.  At dinner it was Maggie and Paul who were silent.  Etta talked to Steinmetz—­brightly, gayly, with a certain courage of a very high order; for she was desperate, and she did not show it.

At last the evening came to an end.  Maggie had sung two songs.  Steinmetz had performed on the piano with a marvellous touch.  All had played their parts with the brazen faces which Steinmetz, in his knowledge of many nations, assigned to the Anglo-Saxon race before others.