He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife.  Catrina’s thoughts followed his.  A man is at a disadvantage in the presence of the woman who loves him.  She usually sees through him—­a marked difference between masculine and feminine love.  Catrina looked up sharply and caught his eyes resting on Etta.

“He does not love her—­he does not love her!” was the thought that instantly leaped into her brain.

And if she had said it to him he would have contradicted her flatly and honestly, and in vain.

“Yes,” the countess was saying with lazy volubility; “Paul is one of our oldest friends.  We are neighbors in the country, you know.  He has always been in and out of our house like one of the family.  My poor husband was very fond of him.”

“Is your husband dead, then?” asked Etta in a low voice, with a strange haste.

“No; he is only in Siberia.  You have perhaps heard of his misfortune—­Count Stepan Lanovitch.”

Etta nodded her head with the deepest sympathy.

“I feel for you, countess,” she said.  “And yet you are so brave—­and mademoiselle,” she said, turning to Catrina.  “I hope we shall see more of each other in Tver.”

Catrina bowed jerkily and made no reply.  Etta glanced at her sharply.  Perhaps she saw more than Catrina knew.

“I suppose,” she said to the countess, with that inclusive manner which spreads the conversation out, “that Paul and Mlle. de Lanovitch were playmates?”

The reply lay with either of the ladies, but Catrina turned away.

“Yes,” answered the countess; “but Catrina is only twenty-four—­ten years younger than Paul.”

“Indeed!” with a faint, cutting surprise.

Indeed Etta looked younger than Catrina.  On a l’age de son coeur, and if the heart be worn it transmits its weariness to the face, where such signs are ascribed to years.  So the little stab was justified by Catrina’s appearance.

While the party assembled were thus exchanging social amenities, a past master in such commerce joined them in the person of Claude de Chauxville.

He smiled his mechanical, heartless smile upon them all, but when he bowed over Etta’s hand his face was grave.  He expressed no surprise at seeing Paul and Etta, though his manner betokened that emotion.  There was no sign of this meeting having been a prearranged matter, brought about by himself through the easy and innocent instrumentality of the countess.

“And you are going to Tver, no doubt?” he said almost at once to Etta.

“Yes,” answered that lady, with a momentary hunted look in her eyes.  It is strange how an obscure geographical name may force its way into our lives, never to be forgotten.  Queen Mary of England struck a note of the human octave when she protested that the word “Calais” was graven on her heart.  It seemed to Etta that “Tver” was written large wheresoever she turned, for the conscience looks through a glass and sees whatever may be written thereon overspreading every prospect.