“Did she pretend that she loved him at first?” she asked suddenly.
Receiving no answer, she looked up and fixed her searching gaze on the face of her companion. Maggie was looking straight in front of her in the direction of the fire, but not with eyes focussed to see any thing so near at hand. She bore the scrutiny without flinching. As soon as Catrina’s eyes were averted the mask-like stillness of her features relaxed.
“She does not take that trouble now,” added the Russian girl, in reply to her own question. “Did you see her to-night when we were at the piano? M. de Chauxville was talking to her. They were keeping two conversations going at the same time. I could see by their faces. They said different things when the music was loud. I hate her. She is not true to Paul. M. de Chauxville knows something about her. They have something in common which is not known to Paul or to any of us! Why do you not speak? Why do you sit staring into the fire with your lips so close together?”
“Because I do not think that we shall gain any thing by discussing Paul and his wife. It is no business of ours.”
Catrina laughed—a lamentable, mirthless laugh.
“That is because she is your cousin; and he—he is nothing to you. You do not care whether he is happy or not!”
Catrina had turned upon her companion fiercely. Maggie swung round in her chair to pick up her bracelets, which had slipped from her knees to the floor.
“You exaggerate things,” she said quietly. “I see no reason to suppose that Paul is unhappy. It is because you have taken this unreasoning dislike to her.”
She took a long time to collect three bracelets. Then she rose and placed them on the dressing-table.
“Do you want me to go?” asked Catrina, in her blunt way.