Paul looked at her in his slow, grave way, but he said nothing. He knew that his wife was cleverer and brighter than himself. He was simple enough to think that this superiority of intellect might be devoted to the good of the peasants of Osterno.
“It is not a bad place,” he said—“a very fine castle, one of the finest in Europe. Before I came away I gave orders for your rooms to be done up. I should like every thing to be nice for you.”
“I know you would, dear,” she answered, glancing at the clock. (The carriage was ordered for a quarter-past ten.) “But I suppose,” she went on, “that, socially speaking, we shall be rather isolated. Our neighbors are few and far between.”
“The nearest,” said Paul quietly, “are the Lanovitches.”
“Who?”
“The Lanovitches. Do you know them?”
“Of course not,” answered Etta sharply. “But I seem to know the name. Were there any in St. Petersburg?”
“The same people,” answered Paul; “Count Stipan Lanovitch.”
Etta was looking at her husband with her bright smile. It was a little too bright, perhaps. Her eyes had a gleam in them. She was conscious of being beautifully dressed, conscious of her own matchless beauty, almost dauntless, like a very strong man armed.
“Well, I think I am a model wife,” she said: “to give in meekly to your tyranny; to go and bury myself in the heart of Russia in the middle of winter—By the way, we must buy some furs; that will be rather exciting. But you must not expect me to be very intimate with your Russian friends. I am not quite sure that I like Russians”—she went toward him, laying her two hands gently on his broad breast and looking up at him—“not quite sure—especially Russian princes who bully their wives. You may kiss me, however, but be very careful. Now I must go and finish dressing. We shall be late as it is.”