At last Etta rose to go to bed, with a little sharp sigh of great suspense.  It was coming.

She went up to her room, bidding Maggie good-night in the passage.  In a mechanical way she allowed the deft-handed maid to array her in a dressing gown—­soft, silken, a dainty triumph in its way.  Then, almost impatiently, she sent the maid away when her hair was only half released.  She would brush it herself.  She was tired.  No, she wanted nothing more.

She sat down by the fire, brush in hand.  She could hardly breathe.  It was coming.

She heard Paul come to his dressing-room.  She heard his deep, quiet voice reply to some question of his valet’s.  Then the word “Good-night” in the same quiet voice.  The valet had gone.  There was only the door now between her and—­what?  Her fingers were at the throat of her dressing-gown.  The soft lace seemed to choke her.

Then Paul knocked at the door.  It was coming.  She opened her lips, but at first could make no sound.

“Come in!” she said at length hoarsely.

She wondered whether he would kill her.  She wondered whether she was in love with her husband.  She had begun wondering that lately; she was wondering it when he came in.  He had changed his dress-coat for a silk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working with Steinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed.

She looked up.  She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a great rustle of her flowing silks.

“Oh, Paul, what is it?” she cried.

She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face.

“Have you seen any one?” she whispered.

“Only De Chauxville,” he answered, “this afternoon.”

“Indeed, Paul,” she protested hastily, “it was nothing.  A message from Catrina Lanovitch.  It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance.  It would have been very strange if he had not called.  Do you think I could care for a man like that?”

“I never did think so until now,” returned Paul steadily.  “Your excuses accuse you.  You may care for him.  I do not know; I—­do—­not—­care.”

She turned slowly and went back to her chair.

Mechanically she took up the brush, and shook back her beautiful hair.

“You mean you do not care for me,” she said.  “Oh, Paul! be careful.”

Paul stood looking at her.  He was not a subtle-minded man at all.  He was not one of those who take it upon themselves to say that they understand women—­using the word in an offensively general sense, as if women were situated midway between the human and the animal races.  He was old-fashioned enough to look upon women as higher and purer than men, while equally capable of thought and self-control.  He had, it must be remembered, no great taste for fictional literature.  He had not read the voluminous lucubrations of the modern woman writer.  He had not assisted at the nauseating spectacle of a woman morally turning herself inside out in three volumes and an interview.