He met her glance with his grave, slow smile.
“There is no question of going,” he answered. “You must know that.”
She did not attempt to persuade. Perhaps there was something in his voice which she as a Russian understood—a ring of that which we call pig-headedness in others.
“It must be splendid to be a man,” she said suddenly, in a ringing voice. “One feeling in me made me ask you the favor, while another was a sense of gladness at your certain refusal. I wish I was a man. I envy you. You do not know how I envy you, Paul.”
Paul gave a quiet laugh—such a laugh as one hears in the trenches after the low hum of a passing ball.
“If it is danger you want, you will have more than I in the next week,” he answered. “Steinmetz and I knew that you were the only woman in Russia who could get your father safely out of the country. That is why I came for you.”
The girl did not answer at once. They were driving on the road again now, and the sleigh was running smoothly.
“I suppose,” she said reflectively at length, “that the secret of the enormous influence you exercise over all who come in contact with you is that you drag the best out of every one—the best that is in them.”
Paul did not answer.
“What is that light?” she asked suddenly, laying her hand on the thick fur of his sleeve. She was not nervous, but very watchful. “There—straight in front.”