elf of your proffered hospitality in a day or two. With salutations
to the countess,

"Your old friend,

"Karl Steinmetz."

Steinmetz waited with the letter in his hand for Paul's approval. "You
see," he explained, "you are notoriously indifferent to the welfare of
the peasants. It would be unnatural if you suddenly displayed so much
interest as to induce you to go to Thors on a mission of charity."

Paul nodded. "All right," he said. "Yes, I see; though I confess I
sometimes forget what the deuce I _am_ supposed to be."

Steinmetz laughed pleasantly as he folded the letter. He rose and went
to the door.

"I will send it off," he said. He paused on the threshold and looked
back gravely. "Do not forget," he added, "that Catrina Lanovitch loves
you."

CHAPTER XII

AT THORS

Below the windows of a long, low, stone house, in its architecture
remarkably like a fortified farm--below these deep-embrasured windows
the river Oster mumbled softly. One of the windows was wide open, and
with the voice of the water a wonderful music rolled out to mingle and
lose itself in the hum of the pine-woods.

The room was a small one; beneath the artistic wall-paper one detected
the outline of square-hewn stones. There were women's things lying
about; there were flowers in a bowl on a low, strong table. There were a
few good engravings on the wall; deep-curtained windows, low chairs, a
sofa, a fan. But it was not a womanly room. The music filling it,
vibrating back from the grim stone walls, was not womanly music. It was
more than manly. It was not earthly, but almost divine. It happened to
be Grieg, with the halting beat of a disabled, perhaps a broken, heart
in it, as that master's music usually has.

The girl was alone in the room. The presence of any one would have
silenced something that was throbbing at the back of the chords. Quite
suddenly she stopped. She knew how to play the quaint last notes. She
knew something that no master had ever taught her.

She swung round on the stool and faced the light. It was afternoon--an
autumn afternoon in Russia--and the pink light made the very best of a
face which was not beautiful at all, never could be beautiful--a face
about which even the owner, a woman, could have no possible illusion. It
was broad and powerful, with eyes too far apart, forehead too broad and
low, jaw too heavy, mouth too determined. The eyes were almond-shaped,
and slightly sloping downward and inward-