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'bge 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.
“The prince,” continued De Chauxville, turning to Paul, “is a great sportsman, I am told—a mighty hunter. I wonder why Englishmen always want to kill something.”
Paul smiled, without making an immediate answer. He was not the man to be led into the danger of repartee by such as De Chauxville.