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 Stipan 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?”