Drexel excused himself, leaving the countess pouring tea for the two men, and withdrew into the hall, where under pretense of examining some etchings from Corot he kept watch upon the broad staircase. As he had hoped, Sonya soon came down the stairway, alone. She responded to his “Good-morning, princess,” with a formal smile.
“What kind of a day is it?” she asked perfunctorily, and crossed into the embrasure of a window and gazed out into the park. He followed her, half doubtful if there really was the secret tie of a common purpose between this haughty being and himself. But once within the alcove she smiled at him again—this time a comradely, half-whimsical smile.
“Well, sir, how do you feel now about being in the lion’s den?”
“Like getting out as soon as we get what we want.”
“Then you are ready to go on?”
“Do I look like a man who wishes to withdraw?”
She searched his face with its quiet, determined eyes.
“No,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, and a warm glow went through him.
The countess’s recent words were strong upon him. He was curious to learn Sonya’s impression, and there was not the same reason for absolute secrecy in the countess’s case as there was in Sonya’s. “Tell me, what do you know of Countess Baronova?” he asked.