Our neighbors
are few and far between."
"The nearest," said Paul quietly, "are the Lanovitches."
"_Who_?"
"The Lanovitches. Do you know them?"
"Of course not," answered Etta sharply. "But I seem to know the name.
Were there any in St. Petersburg?"
"The same people," answered Paul; "Count Stepan Lanovitch."
Etta was looking at her husband with her bright smile. It was a little
too bright, perhaps. Her eyes had a gleam in them. She was conscious of
being beautifully dressed, conscious of her own matchless beauty, almost
dauntless, like a very strong man armed.
"Well, I think I am a model wife," she said: "to give in meekly to your
tyranny; to go and bury myself in the heart of Russia in the middle of
winter--By the way, we must buy some furs; that will be rather exciting.
But you must not expect me to be very intimate with your Russian
friends. I am not quite sure that I like Russians"--she went toward him,
laying her two hands gently on his broad breast and looking up at
him--"not quite sure--especially Russian princes who bully their wives.
You may kiss me, however, but be very careful. Now I must go and finish
dressing. We shall be late as it is."
She gathered together her fan and gloves, for she had petulantly dragged
off a pair which did not fit.
"And you will ask Maggie to come with us?" she said.
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