n her eyes.
That is one of the privileges of a great love, whether it bring
happiness or misery--the contempt for all who have never known it.

While they remained thus the sound of sleigh-bells on the quiet English
Quay made itself heard through the double windows. There was a clang of
many tones, and the horses pulled up with a jerk. The color left
Catrina's face quite suddenly, as if wiped away, leaving her ghastly.
She was going to see Paul and his wife.

Presently the door opened, and Etta came into the room with the
indomitable assurance which characterized her movements and earned for
her a host of feminine enemies.

"Mme. la Comtesse," she said, with her most gracious smile, taking the
limp hand offered to her by the Countess Lanovitch.

Catrina stood in the embrasure of the window, hating her.

Paul followed on his wife's heels, scarcely concealing his boredom. He
was not a society man. Catrina came forward and exchanged a formal bow
with Etta, who took in her plainness and the faults of her dress at one
contemptuous glance. She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figure
for no figure at all. Paul was shaking hands with the countess. When he
took Catrina's hand her fingers were icy, and twitched nervously within
his grasp.

The countess was already babbling to Etta in French. The Princess Howard
Alexis always began by informing Paul's friends that she knew no
Russian. For a moment Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone.
When the countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy her
voice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated any other
conversation that might be going on in the room.

"I wish you happiness," said Catrina, and no one heard her but Paul. She
did not raise her eyes to his, but looked vaguely at his collar. Her
voice was short and rather breathless, as if she had just emerged from
deep water.

"Thank you," answered Paul simply.

He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife. Catrina's thoughts
followed his. A man is at a disadvantage in the presence of the woman
who loves him. She usually sees through him--a marked difference between
masculine and feminine love. Catrina looked up sharply and caught his
eyes resting on Etta.

"He does not love her--he does not love her!" was the thought that
instantly leaped into her brain.

And if she had said it to him he would have contradicted her flatly and
honestly, and in vain.

"Yes," the countess was saying