“Which is like the reserve of a young girl,” added the Frenchman. “It keeps warm that which is beneath it.”
“You need not be afraid with Catrina,” chimed in the countess, nodding and becking in a manner that clearly showed her assumption to herself of some vague compliment. “She drives beautifully. She is not nervous in that way. I have never seen any one drive like her.”
“I have no doubt,” said De Chauxville, “that mademoiselle’s hands are firm, despite their diminutiveness.”
The countess was charmed—and showed it. She frowned at Catrina, who remained grave and looked at the clock.
“When would you like to go?” she asked De Chauxville, with that complete absence of affectation which the Russian, of all women of the world, alone have mastered in their conversation with men.
“Am I not at your service—now and always?” responded the gallant baron.
“I hope not,” replied Catrina quietly. “There are occasions when I have no use for you. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
“With pleasure. Then I will go and write my letters now,” said the baron, quitting the room.
“A charming man!” ejaculated the countess, before the door was well closed.
“A fool!” corrected Catrina.