"May I go
in?"
Steinmetz did not move.
"I think not. This Moscow man is eccentric. He likes to do good sub
rosa. He prefers to be alone."
Catrina tried to look into the cottage; but Karl Steinmetz, as we know,
was fat, and filled up the whole door-way.
"I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at least, to offer him
hospitality. I suppose one cannot pay him."
"No; one cannot pay him," answered Steinmetz gravely.
There was a little pause. From the interior of the cottage came the
murmured gratitude of the peasants, broken at times by a wail of
agony--the wail of a man. It is not a pleasant sound to hear. Catrina
heard it, and it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm of
sympathy.
Again she made an impatient little movement.
"Let me go in," she urged. "I may be able to help."
Steinmetz shook his head.
"Better not!" he said. "Besides, your life is too precious to these poor
people to run unnecessary risks."
She gave a strange, bitter laugh.
"And what about you?" she said. "And Paul?"
"You never hear of Paul going into any of the cottages," snapped
Steinmetz sharply. "For me it is different. You have never heard that of
Paul."
"No," she answered slowly; "and it is quite right. His life--it is
different for him. How--how is Paul?"
"He is well, thank you."
Steinmetz glanced down at her.
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