“She would not live with me,” said the princess curtly.
Paul seemed to be reflecting. When he next spoke it was in a kinder voice.
“You need not tell the circumstances which have given rise to this arrangement.”
Etta shrugged her shoulders.
“That,” went on Paul, “rests entirely with yourself. You may be sure that I will tell no one. I am not likely to discuss it with any one whomsoever.”
Etta’s stony eyes softened for a moment. She seemed to be alternating between hatred of this man and love of him—a dangerous state for any woman. It is possible that, if he had held his hand out to her, she would have been at his feet in a wild, incoherent passion of self-hatred and abasement. Such moments as these turn our lives and determine them. Paul knew nothing of the issue hanging on this moment, on the passing softness of her eyes. He knew nothing of the danger in which this woman stood, of the temptation with which she was wrestling. He went on in his blindness, went on being only just.
“If,” he said, “you have any further questions to ask, I shall always be at your service. For the next few days I shall be busy. The peasants are in a state of discontent verging on rebellion. We cannot at present arrange for your journey to Tver, but as soon as it is possible I will tell you.”
He looked at the clock, and made an imperceptible movement toward the door.
Etta glanced up sharply. She did not seem to be breathing.
“Is that all?” she asked, in a dull voice.