It was he who spoke first.  In the smaller crises of life it is usually the woman who takes this privilege upon herself; but the larger situations need a man’s steadier grasp.

“My dear lady,” he said, “if you are content to take my friendship as it is, it is yours.  But I warn you it is no showy drawing-room article.  There will be no compliments, no pretty speeches, no little gifts of flowers, and such trumpery amenities.  It will all be very solid and middle-aged, like myself.”

“You think,” returned the lady, “that I am fit for nothing better than pretty speeches and compliments and floral offerings?”

She broke off with a forced little laugh, and awaited his verdict with defiant eyes upraised.  He returned the gaze through his placid spectacles; her beauty, in its setting of brilliant dress and furniture, soft lights, flowers, and a thousand feminine surroundings, failed to dazzle him.

“I do,” he said quietly.

“And yet you offer me your friendship?”

He bowed in acquiescence.

“Why?” she asked.

“For Paul’s sake, my dear lady.”

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him.

“Of course,” she said, “it is quite easy to be rude.  As it happens, it is precisely for Paul’s sake that I took the trouble of speaking to you on this matter.  I do not wish him to be troubled with such small domestic affairs; and therefore, if we are to live under the same roof, I shall deem it a favor if you will, at all events, conceal your disapproval of me.”

He bowed gravely and kept silence.  Etta sat with a little patch of color on either cheek, looking into the fire until the door was opened and Maggie came in.

Steinmetz went toward her with his grave smile, while Etta hid a face which had grown haggard.

Maggie glanced from one to the other with frank interest.  The relationship between these two had rather puzzled her of late.

“Well,” said Steinmetz, “and what of St. Petersburg?”

“I am not disappointed,” replied Maggie.  “It is all I expected and more.  I am not blasee like Etta.  Every thing interests me.”

“We were discussing Petersburg when you came in,” said Steinmetz, drawing forward a chair.  “The princess does not like it.  She complains of—­nerves.”

“Nerves!” exclaimed Maggie, turning to her cousin.  “I did not suspect you of having them.”

Etta smiled, a little wearily.

“One never knows,” she answered, forcing herself to be light, “what one may come to in old age.  I saw a gray hair this morning.  I am nearly thirty-three, you know.  When glamour goes, nerves come.”

“Well, I suppose they do—­especially in Russia, perhaps.  There is a glamour about Russia, and I mean to cultivate it rather than nerves.  There is a glamour about every thing—­the broad streets, the Neva, the snow, and the cold.  Especially the people.  It is always especially the people, is it not?”