He accepted with alacrity.
“And now,” she said, “let me hear where you have been. I have only had time to shake hands with you the last twice that we have met! You said you had been away.”
“Yes; I have been to Russia.”
Her face was steadily beautiful, composed and ready.
“Ah! How interesting! I have been in Petersburg. I love Russia.” While she spoke she was actually looking across the room toward the tall Frenchman, her late companion.
“Do you?” answered Paul eagerly. His face lighted up after the manner of those countenances that belong to men of one idea. “I am very much interested in Russia.”
“Do you know Petersburg?” she asked rather hurriedly. “I mean—society there?”
“No. I know one or two people in Moscow.”
She nodded, suppressing a quick little sigh which might have been one of relief had her face been less pleasant and smiling.
“Who?” she asked indifferently. She was interested in the lace of her pocket-handkerchief, of which the scent faintly reached him. He was a simple person, and the faint odor gave him a distinct pleasure—a suggested intimacy.