“Au revoir,” said Paul, “if you wish it.”
And he turned to say good-by to Catrina.
As De Chauxville had arrived later than the other visitors, it was quite natural that he should remain after they had left, and it may be safely presumed that he took good care to pin the Countess Lanovitch down to her rash invitation.
“Why is that man coming to Tver?” said Paul, rather gruffly, when Etta and he were settled beneath the furs of the sleigh. “We do not want him there.”
“I expect,” replied Etta rather petulantly, “that we shall be so horribly dull that even M. de Chauxville will be a welcome alleviation.”
Paul said nothing. He gave a little sign to the driver, and the horses leaped forward with a musical clash of their silver bells.
CHAPTER XXII — THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
It is to be feared that there is a lamentable lack of local color in the present narrative. Having safely arrived at Petersburg, we have nothing to tell of that romantic city—no hints at deep-laid plots, no prison, nor tales of jail-birds—tales with salt on them, bien entendu—the usual grain. We have hardly mentioned the Nevski Prospekt, which street by ancient right must needs figure in all Russian romance. We have instead been prating of drawing-rooms and mere interiors of houses, which to-day are the same all the world over. A Japanese fan is but a Japanese fan, whether it hang on the wall of a Canadian drawing-room or the matting of an Indian bungalow. An Afghan carpet is the same on any floor. It is the foot that treads the carpet which makes one to differ from another.