“I do not think I am,” said Etta, with a shudder.  She rose rather hurriedly, and crossed the room with a great rustle of silks.

“Stop her!” she whispered, as she passed Steinmetz.

CHAPTER XXI

A SUSPECTED HOUSE

The Countess Lanovitch and Catrina were sitting together in the too-luxurious drawing-room that overlooked the English Quay and the Neva.  The double windows were rigorously closed, while the inner panes were covered with a thick rime.  The sun was just setting over the marshes that border the upper waters of the Gulf of Finland, and lit up the snow-clad city with a rosy glow which penetrated to the room where the two women sat.

Catrina was restless, moving from chair to chair, from fire-place to window, with a lack of repose which would certainly have touched the nerves of a less lethargic person than the countess.

“My dear child!” that lady was exclaiming with lackadaisical horror, “we cannot go to Thors yet.  The thought is too horrible.  You never think of my health.  Besides, the gloom of the everlasting snow is too painful.  It makes me think of your poor mistaken father, who is probably shovelling it in Siberia.  Here, at all events, one can avoid the window—­one need not look at it.”

“The policy of shutting one’s eyes is a mistake,” said Catrina.

She had risen, and was standing by the window, her stunted form being framed, as it were, in a rosy glow of pink.

The countess heaved a little sigh and gazed idly at the fire.  She did not understand Catrina.  She was afraid of her.  There was something rugged and dogged which the girl had inherited from her father—­that Slavonic love of pain for its own sake—­which makes Russian patriots and thinkers strange, incomprehensible beings.

“I question it, Catrina,” said the elder lady; “but perhaps it is a matter of health.  Dr. Stantovitch told me, quite between ourselves, that if I had given way to my grief at the time of the trial he would not have held himself responsible for the consequences.”

“Dr. Stantovitch,” said Catrina, “is a humbug.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed the countess, “he attends all the noble ladies of Petersburg.”

“Precisely,” answered Catrina.

She was woman enough to enter into futile arguments with her mother, and man enough to despise herself for doing it.

“Why do you want to go back to Thors so soon?” murmured the elder lady, with a little sigh of despair.  She knew she was playing a losing game very badly.  She was mentally shuddering at the recollection of former sleigh-journeying from Tver to Thors.

“Because I am sure father would like us to be there this hard winter.”

“But your father is in Siberia,” put in the countess, which remark was ignored.

“Because if we do not go before the snow begins to melt we shall have to do the journey in carriages over bad roads, which is sure to knock you up.  Because our place is at Thors, and no one wants us here.  I hate Petersburg.  It is no use living here unless one is rich and beautiful and popular.  We are none of those things, so we are better at Thors.”