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.
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