“My dear countess, silence!” interrupted Steinmetz at this moment, breaking into the conversation in his masterful way and enabling Etta to get away. Catrina, at the other end of the room, was listening, hard-eyed, breathless. It was the sight of Catrina’s face that made Steinmetz go forward. He had not been looking at Catrina, but at Etta, who was perfect in her composure and steady self-control.
“Do you want to enter the boot trade also?” asked Steinmetz cheerfully, in a lowered voice.
“Heaven forbid!” cried the countess.
“Then let us talk of safer things.”
The short twilight was already brooding over the land. The room, lighted only by small square windows, grew darker and darker until Catrina rang for lamps.
“I hate a dark room,” she said shortly to Maggie.
When De Chauxville came in, a few minutes later, Catrina was at the piano. The room was brilliantly lighted, and on the table gleamed and glittered the silver tea-things. The intermediate meal had been disposed of, but the samovar had been left alight, as is the habit at Russian afternoon teas.
Catrina looked up when the Frenchman entered, but did not cease playing.
“There is no need for introductions, I think,” said the countess.
“We all know M. de Chauxville,” replied Paul quietly, and the two men exchanged a glance.