“You can never go back to Russia,” said Etta slowly, feeling her ground, as it were.
“Oh, yes, I can. I was just coming to that. I want to go back this winter. There is so much to be done. And I want you to come with me.”
“No, Paul. No, no! I couldn’t do that!” cried Etta, with a ring of horror in her voice, strangely out of keeping with her peaceful and luxurious surroundings.
“Why not?” asked the man who had never known fear.
“Oh, I should be afraid. I couldn’t. I hate Russia!”
“But you don’t know it.”
“No,” answered Etta, turning away and busying herself with her long silken train. “No, of course not. Only Petersburg, I mean. But I have heard what it is. So cold and dismal and miserable. I feel the cold so horribly. I wanted to go to the Riviera this winter. I really think, Paul, you are asking me too much.”
“I am only asking a proof that you care for me.”
Etta gave a little laugh—a nervous laugh with no mirth in it.
“A proof! But that is so bourgeois and unnecessary. Haven’t you proof enough, since I am your wife?”