The countess looked from one to the other with a smile on her foolish face.
“Ah!” she exclaimed; “how pleasant it is to meet old friends! It is like by-gone times.”
At this moment the door opened again and Catrina came in. In her rich furs she looked almost pretty.
She shook hands eagerly with Steinmetz; her deep eyes searched his face with a singular, breathless scrutiny.
“Where are you from?” she asked quickly.
“London.”
“Catrina,” broke in the countess, “you do not remember M. de Chauxville! He nursed you when you were a child.”
Catrina turned and bowed to De Chauxville.
“I should have remembered you,” he said, “if we had met accidentally. After all, childhood is but a miniature—is it not so?”
“Perhaps,” answered Catrina; “and when the miniature develops it loses the delicacy which was its chief charm.”