“That is mere prevarication.  Leave that to Herr Steinmetz and such men, whose business it is; you don’t do it well.  Your friends may feel a lot that they do not show.”

She spoke the words shortly and sharply.  Surreptitious good is so rare, that when it is found out it very naturally gets mixed up with secret evil, and the perpetrator of the hidden good deed feels guilty of a crime.  Paul was in this lamentable position, which he proceeded to further aggravate by seeking to excuse himself.

“I did it after mature consideration.  I tried paying another man, but he shirked his work and showed the white feather; so Steinmetz and I concluded that there was nothing to be done but do our dirty work ourselves.”

“Which, being translated, means that you do it.”

“Pardon me.  Steinmetz does his share.”

Catrina Lanovitch was essentially a woman, despite her somewhat masculine frame.  She settled Karl Steinmetz’s account with a sniff of contempt.

“And that is why you have been so fond of Osterno the last two years?” she asked innocently.

“Yes,” he answered, falling into the trap.

Catrina winced.  One does not wince the less because the pain is expected.  The girl had the Slav instinct of self-martyrdom, which makes Russians so very different from the pleasure-loving nations of Europe.

“Only that?” she enquired.

Paul glanced down at her.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

They walked on in silence for a few moments.  Paul seemed tacitly to have given up the idea of visiting any more of the stricken cottages.  They were going toward the long old house, which was called the castle more by courtesy than by right.

“How long are you going to stay in Osterno?” asked Catrina at length.

“About a fortnight; I cannot stay longer.  I am going to be married.”

Catrina stopped dead.  She stood for a moment looking at the ground with a sort of wonder in her eyes, not pleasant to see.  It was the look of one who, having fallen from a great height, is not quite sure whether it means death or not.  Then she walked on.

“I congratulate you,” she said.  “I only hope she will make you happy.  She is—­beautiful, I suppose?”

“Yes,” answered Paul simply.

The girl nodded her head.

“What is her name?”

“Etta Sydney Bamborough.”

Catrina had evidently never heard the name before.  It conveyed nothing to her.  Womanlike, she went back to her first question.

“What is she like?”

Paul hesitated.

“Tall, I suppose?” suggested the stunted woman at his side.

“Yes.”

“And graceful?”

“Yes.”

“Has she—­pretty hair?” asked Catrina.

“I think so—­yes.”

“You are not observant,” said the girl in a singularly even and emotionless voice.  “Perhaps you never noticed.”