Catrina nodded.  At times duty is the kedge-anchor of happiness.  The girl was dimly aware that she was holding to this.  She was simple and unsophisticated enough to consider Paul’s opinion infallible.  At the great cross-roads of life we are apt to ask the way of any body who happens to be near.  Catrina might perhaps have made a worse choice of counsel, for Paul was honest.

“As you put it,” she said, “it is clearly my duty.  There is a sort of consolation in that, however painful it may be at the time.  I suppose it is consolatory to look back and think that at all events one did one’s duty.”

“I don’t know,” answered Paul simply; “I suppose so.”

Looking back was not included in his method of life, which was rather characterized by a large faith and a forward pressure.  Whenever there was question of considering life as an abstract, he drew within his shell with a manlike shyness.  He had no generalities ready for each emergency.

“Would father have gone alone?” she asked, with a very human thrill of hope in her voice.

“No,” answered Paul steadily, “I think not.  But you can ask him.”

They had never been so distant as they were at this moment—­so cold, such mere acquaintances.  And they had played together in one nursery.

“Of course, if that is the case,” said the girl, “my duty is quite clear.”

“It required some persuasion to make him consent to go, even with you,” said Paul.

A rough piece of going—­for there was no road—­debarred further conversation at this time.  The sleigh rolled and bumped over one fallen tree after another.  Paul, with his feet stretched out, wedged firmly into the sleigh, encouraged the tired horses with rein and voice.  Catrina was compelled to steady herself with both hands on the bar of the apron; for the apron of a Russian sleigh is a heavy piece of leather stretched on a wooden bar.

“Then you think my duty is quite clear?” repeated the girl at length.

Paul did not answer at once.

“I am sure of it,” he said.

And there the question ended.  Catrina Lanovitch, who had never been ruled by those about her, shaped her whole life unquestioningly upon an opinion.

They did not speak for some time, and then it was the girl who broke the silence.

“I have a confession to make and a favor to ask,” she said bluntly.

Paul’s attitude denoted attention, but he said nothing.

“It is about the Baron de Chauxville,” she said.

“Ah!”

“I am a coward,” she went on.  “I did not know it before.  It is rather humiliating.  I have been trying for some weeks to tell you something, but I am horribly afraid of it.  I am afraid you will despise me.  I have been a fool—­worse, perhaps.  I never knew that Claude de Chauxville was the sort of person he is.  I allowed him to find out things about me which he never should have known—­my own private affairs, I mean.  Then I became frightened, and he tried to make use of me.  I think he makes use of every-body. You know what he is.”