Catrina hated Etta Sydney Bamborough with a simple half-barbaric hatred
because she had gained the love of Paul Alexis. Etta had taken away from
her the only man whom Catrina could ever love all through her life. The
girl was simple enough, unsophisticated enough, never to dream of
compromise. She never for a moment entertained the cheap, consolatory
thought that in time she would get over it; she would marry somebody
else, and make that compromise which is responsible for more misery in
this world than ever is vice. In her great solitude, growing to
womanhood as she had in the vast forest of Tver, she had learned nearly
all that she knew from the best teacher, Nature; and she held the
strange, effete theory that it is wicked for a woman to marry a man she
does not love, or to marry at all for any reason except love. St. Paul
and a few others held like theories, but nous avons change tout cela.
"Where does she live?" asked Catrina.
"In London."
They walked on in silence for a few moments. They were walking slowly,
and they presently heard the footsteps of Karl Steinmetz and the servant
close behind them.
"I wonder," said Catrina, half to herself, "whether she loves you?"
It was a question, but not one that a man can answer. Paul said nothing,
but walked gravely on by the side of this woman, who knew that even if
Etta Sydney Bamborough should try she could never love him as she
herself did.
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