They procured skates and glided off hand in hand, equally proficient, equally practised, maybe on this same lake; for both had learned to skate in Russia.
They talked only of the present, of the brilliancy of the fête, of the music, of the thousand lights. Etta was quite incapable of thinking or talking of any other subject at that moment.
Steinmetz distinguished Claude de Chauxville easily enough, and avoided him with some success for a short time. But De Chauxville soon caught sight of them.
“Here is M. de Chauxville,” said Etta, with a pleased ring in her voice. “Leave me with him. I expect you are tired.”
“I am not tired, but I am obedient,” replied Steinmetz, as the Frenchman came up with his fur cap in his hand, bowing gracefully. Claude de Chauxville usually overdid things. There is something honest in a clumsy bow which had no place in his courtly obeisance.
Although Steinmetz continued to skate in a leisurely way, he also held to his original intention of looking on. He saw Paul and Maggie come back to the edge of the lake, accompanied by an English lady of some importance in Russia, with whom Maggie presently went away to the concert-room.
Steinmetz glided up to Paul, who was lighting a cigarette at the edge of the pond, where an attendant stood by an open wood fire with cigarettes and hot beverages.
“Get a pair of skates,” said the German. “This ice is marvellous—colossa-a-a-l.”
He amused himself with describing figures, like a huge grave-minded boy, until Paul joined him.
“Where is Etta?” asked the prince at once.
“Over there with De Chauxville.”
Paul said nothing for a few moments. They skated side by side round the lake. It was too cold to stand still even for a minute.
“I told you,” remarked Paul at length, “that that fellow is coming to Thors.”
“I wish he would go to the devil,” said Steinmetz.
“No doubt he will in time,” answered Paul carelessly.
“Yes; but not soon enough. I assure you, Paul, I do not like it. We are just in that position that the least breath of suspicion will get us into endless trouble. The authorities know that Stépan Lanovitch has escaped. At any moment the Charity League scandal may be resuscitated. We do not want fellows like De Chauxville prowling about. I know the man. He is a d⸺d scoundrel who would sell his immortal soul if he could get a bid for it. What is he coming to Thors for? He is not a sportsman; why, he would be afraid of a cock pheasant, though he would be plucky enough among the hens. You don’t imagine he is in love with Catrina, do you?”
“No,” said Paul sharply, “I don’t.”
Steinmetz raised his bushy eyebrows. Etta and De Chauxville skated past them at that moment, laughing gayly.
“I have been thinking about it,” went on Steinmetz, “and I have come to the conclusion that our friend hates you personally. He has a grudge against you of some sort. Of course he hates me—cela va sans dire. He has come to Russia to watch us. That I am convinced of. He has come here bent on mischief. It may be that he is hard up and is to be bought. He is always to be bought, ce bon De Chauxville, at a price. We shall see.”
Steinmetz paused and glanced at Paul. He could not tell him more. He could not tell him that his wife had sold the Charity League papers to those who wanted them. He could not tell him all that he knew of Etta’s past. None of these things could Karl Steinmetz, in the philosophy that was his, tell to the person whom they most concerned. And who are we that we may hold him wrong? The question of telling and withholding is not to be dismissed in a few words. But it seems very certain that there is too much telling, too much speaking out, and too little holding in, in these days of much publicity. There is a school of speakers-out, and would to Heaven they would learn to hold their tongues. There is a school for calling a spade by no other name, and they have still to learn that the world is by no means interested in their clatter of shovels.
The Psalmist knew much of which he did not write, and the young men of the modern school of poesy and fiction know no more, but they lack the good taste of the singer of old. That is all.
Karl Steinmetz was a man who formed his opinion on the best basis—namely, experience, and that had taught him that a bold reticence does less harm to one’s neighbor than a weak volubility.
Paul was an easy subject for such treatment. His own method inclined to err on the side of reticence. He gave few confidences and asked none, as is the habit of Englishmen.
“Well,” he said, “I do not suppose he will stay long at Thors, and I know that he will not stay at all at Osterno. Besides, what harm can he actually do to us? He cannot well go about making enquiries. To begin with, he knows no Russian.”
“I doubt that,” put in Steinmetz.
“And, even if he does, he cannot come poking about in Osterno. Catrina will give him no information. Maggie hates him. You and I know him. There is only the countess.”
“Who will tell him all she knows! She would render that service to a drosky driver.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
There was no mention of Etta. They stood side by side, both thinking of her, both looking at her, as she skated with De Chauxville. There lay the danger, and they both knew it. But she was the wife of one of them and their lips were necessarily sealed.
“And it will be permitted,” Claude de Chauxville happened to be saying at that moment, “that I call and pay my respects to an exiled princess?”
“There will be difficulties,” answered Etta, in that tone which makes it necessary to protest
