“Why?”
Steinmetz laughed.
“Oh,” he answered, “because every-body does who can. There is Catrina Lanovitch, an estate as big as yours, adjoining yours. A great Russian family, a good girl who—is willing.”
Paul laughed, a good wholesome laugh.
“You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and obvious qualifications,” he said. “Catrina is a very nice girl, but I do not think she would marry me even if I asked her.”
“Which you do not intend to do.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you will make an enemy of her,” said Steinmetz quietly. “It may be inconvenient, but that cannot be helped. A woman scorned—you know. Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up. No, Paul; Catrina Lanovitch is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you these last four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool! I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!”
“I think you are wrong,” said Paul rather curtly; “not about me being a fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch. If you are right, however, it only makes me dislike her instead of being perfectly indifferent to her.”
His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at the clock again.