“But we have many nice friends here, dear.  You will see, this afternoon.  I expect quite a reception.  By the way, I hope Kupfer has sent the little cakes.  Your father used to be so fond of them.  I wonder if we could send him a box to Siberia.  He would enjoy them, poor man!  He might give some to the prison people, and thus obtain a little alleviation.  Yes; the Comte de Chauxville said he would come on my first reception-day, and, of course, Paul and his wife must return my call.  They will come to-day.  I am anxious to see her.  They say she is beautiful and dresses well.”

Catrina’s broad white teeth gleamed for a moment in the flickering firelight, as she clenched them over her lower lip.

“And therefore Paul’s happiness in life is assured,” she said, in a hard voice.

“Of course.  What more could he want?” murmured the countess, in blissful ignorance of any irony.

Catrina looked at her mother with a gleam of utter contempt in her eyes.  That is one of the privileges of a great love, whether it bring happiness or misery—­the contempt for all who have never known it.

While they remained thus the sound of sleigh-bells on the quiet English Quay made itself heard through the double windows.  There was a clang of many tones, and the horses pulled up with a jerk.  The color left Catrina’s face quite suddenly, as if wiped away, leaving her ghastly.  She was going to see Paul and his wife.

Presently the door opened, and Etta came into the room with the indomitable assurance which characterized her movements and earned for her a host of feminine enemies.

“Mme. la Comtesse,” she said, with her most gracious smile, taking the limp hand offered to her by the Countess Lanovitch.

Catrina stood in the embrasure of the window, hating her.

Paul followed on his wife’s heels, scarcely concealing his boredom.  He was not a society man.  Catrina came forward and exchanged a formal bow with Etta, who took in her plainness and the faults of her dress at one contemptuous glance.  She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figure for no figure at all.  Paul was shaking hands with the countess.  When he took Catrina’s hand her fingers were icy, and twitched nervously within his grasp.

The countess was already babbling to Etta in French.  The Princess Howard Alexis always began by informing Paul’s friends that she knew no Russian.  For a moment Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone.  When the countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy her voice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated any other conversation that might be going on in the room.

“I wish you happiness,” said Catrina, and no one heard her but Paul.  She did not raise her eyes to his, but looked vaguely at his collar.  Her voice was short and rather breathless, as if she had just emerged from deep water.

“Thank you,” answered Paul simply.