She heard Paul come to his dressing-room. She heard his deep, quiet voice reply to some question of his valet’s. Then the word “Good-night” in the same quiet voice. The valet had gone. There was only the door now between her and—what? Her fingers were at the throat of her dressing-gown. The soft lace seemed to choke her.
Then Paul knocked at the door. It was coming. She opened her lips, but at first could make no sound.
“Come in!” she said at length hoarsely.
She wondered whether he would kill her. She wondered whether she was in love with her husband. She had begun wondering that lately; she was wondering it when he came in. He had changed his dress-coat for a silk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working with Steinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed.
She looked up. She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a great rustle of her flowing silks.
“Oh, Paul, what is it?” she cried.
She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face.
“Have you seen any one?” she whispered.
“Only De Chauxville,” he answered, “this afternoon.”
“Indeed, Paul,” she protested hastily, “it was nothing. A message from Catrina Lanovitch. It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance. It would have been very strange if he had not called. Do you think I could care for a man like that?”