It was in its way a tragedy, the picture we are called to look upon—­these newly made lovers, not talking of themselves, as is the time-honored habit of such.  Surrounded by every luxury, both high-born, refined, and wealthy; both educated, both intelligent.  He, simple-minded, earnest, quite absorbed in his happiness, because that happiness seemed to fall in so easily with the busier, and, as some might say, the nobler side of his ambition.  She, failing to understand his aspirations, thinking only of his wealth.

“But,” she said at length, “shall you—­we—­be allowed to do all this?  I thought that such schemes were not encouraged in Russia.  It is such a pity to pauperize the people.”

“You cannot pauperize a man who has absolutely nothing,” replied Paul.  “Of course, we shall have difficulties; but, together, I think we shall be able to overcome them.”

Etta smiled sympathetically, and the smile finished up, as it were, with a gleam very like amusement.  She had been vouchsafed for a moment a vision of herself in some squalid Russian village, in a hideous Russian-made tweed dress, dispensing the necessaries of life to a people only little raised above the beasts of the field.  The vision made her smile, as well it might.  In Petersburg life might be tolerable for a little in the height of the season—­for a few weeks of the brilliant Northern winter—­but in no other part of Russia could she dream of dwelling.

They sat and talked of their future as lovers will, knowing as little of it as any of us, building up castles in the air, such edifices as we have all constructed, destined, no doubt, to the same rapid collapse as some of us have quailed under.  Paul, with lamentable honesty, talked almost as much of his stupid peasants as of his beautiful companion, which pleased her not too well.  Etta, with a strange persistence, brought the conversation ever back and back to the house in London, the house in Petersburg, the great grim castle in the Government of Tver, and the princely rent-roll.  And once on the subject of Tver, Paul could scarce be brought to leave it.

“I am going back there,” he said at length.

“When?” she asked, with a composure which did infinite credit to her modest reserve.  Her love was jealously guarded.  It lay too deep to be disturbed by the thought that her lover would leave her soon.

“To-morrow,” was his answer.

She did not speak at once.  Should she try the extent of her power over him?  Never was lover so chivalrous, so respectful, so sincere.  Should she gauge the height of her supremacy?  If it proved less powerful than she suspected, she would at all events be credited with a very natural aversion to parting from him.

“Paul,” she said, “you cannot do that.  Not so soon.  I cannot let you go.”

He flushed up to the eyes suddenly, like a girl.  There was a little pause, and the color slowly left his face.  Somehow that pause frightened Etta.