"Yes," he answered, falling into the trap.
Catrina winced. One does not wince the less because the pain is
expected. The girl had the Slav instinct of self-martyrdom, which makes
Russians so very different from the pleasure-loving nations of Europe.
"Only that?" she enquired.
Paul glanced down at her.
"Yes," he answered quietly.
They walked on in silence for a few moments. Paul seemed tacitly to have
given up the idea of visiting any more of the stricken cottages. They
were going toward the long old house, which was called the castle more
by courtesy than by right.
"How long are you going to stay in Osterno?" asked Catrina at length.
"About a fortnight; I cannot stay longer. I am going to be married."
Catrina stopped dead. She stood for a moment looking at the ground with
a sort of wonder in her eyes, not pleasant to see. It was the look of
one who, having fallen from a great height, is not quite sure whether it
means death or not. Then she walked on.
"I congratulate you," she said. "I only hope she will make you happy.
She is--beautiful, I suppose?"
"Yes," answered Paul simply.
The girl nodded her head.
"What is her name?"
"Etta Sydney Bamborough."
Catrina had evidently never heard the name before. It conveyed nothing
to her. Womanlike, she went back to her first question.
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