“but i confess i cannot understand why i should not be called the princess alexis—there is nothing to be ashamed of in the title. i presume you have a right to it?”

etta looked up from her occupation of fixing a bracelet, with a little glance of enquiry toward her husband.

they had been married a month. the honeymoon—a short one—had been passed in the house of a friend, indeed a relation of etta’s own, a scotch peer who was not above lending a shooting-lodge in scotland on the tacit understanding that there should be some quid pro quo in the future.

in answer paul merely smiled, affectionately tolerant of her bright sharpness of manner. your bright woman in society is apt to be keen at home. what is called vivacity abroad may easily degenerate into snappiness by the hearth.

“i think it is rather ridiculous being called plain mrs. howard-alexis,” added etta, with a pout.

they were going to a ball—the first since their marriage. they had just dined, and paul had followed his wife into the drawing-room. he took a simple-minded delight in her beauty, which was of the description that is at its best in a gorgeous setting. he stood looking at her, noting her grace, her pretty, studied movements. there were, he reflected, few women more beautiful—none, in his own estimation, fit to compare with her.

she had hitherto been sweetness itself to him, enlivening his lonely existence, shining suddenly upon his self-contained nature with a brilliancy that made him feel dull and tongue-tied.

already, however, he was beginning to discover certain small differences, not so much of opinion as of thought, between etta and himself. she attached an importance to social function, to social opinion, to social duties, which he in no wise understood. invitations were showered upon them. a man who is a prince and prefers to drop the title need not seek popularity in london. the very respectable reader probably knows as well as his humble servant, the writer, that in london there is always a social circle just a little lower than one’s own which opens its doors with noble, disinterested hospitality, and is prepared to lick the blacking from any famous foot.

these invitations etta accepted eagerly. some women hold it little short of a crime to refuse an invitation, and go through life regretting that there is only one evening to each day. to paul these calls were nothing new. his secretary had hitherto drawn a handsome salary for doing little more than refuse such.

it was in etta’s nature to be somewhat carried away by glitter. a great ball-room, brilliant illumination, music, flowers, and diamonds had an effect upon her which she enjoyed in anticipation. her eyes gleamed brightly on reading the mere card of invitation. some dull and self-contained men are only to be roused by the clatter and whirl of a battle-field, and this stirs them into brilliancy, changing them to new men. etta, always brilliant, always bright, exceeded herself on her battle-field—a great social function.

since their marriage she had never been so beautiful, her eyes had never been so sparkling, her color so brilliant as at this moment when she asked her husband to let her use her title. hers was the beauty that blooms not for one man alone, but for the multitude; that feeds not on the love of one, but on the admiration of many. the murmur of the man in the street who turned and stared into her carriage was more than the devotion of her husband.

“a foreign title,” answered paul, “is nothing in england. i soon found that out at eton and at trinity. it was impossible there. i dropped it, and i have never taken it up again.”

“yes, you old stupid, and you have never taken the place you are entitled to, in consequence.”

“what place? may i button that?”

“thanks.”

she held out her arm while he, with fingers much too large for such dainty work, buttoned her glove.

“the place in society,” she answered.

“oh; does that matter? i never thought of it.”

“of course it matters,” answered the lady, with an astonished little laugh. (it is wonderful what an importance we attach to that which has been dearly won.) “of course it matters,” answered etta; “more than—well, more than any thing.”

“but the position that depends upon a foreign title cannot be of much value,” said the pupil of karl steinmetz.

etta shook her pretty head reflectively.

“of course,” she answered, “money makes a position of its own, and every-body knows that you are a prince; but it would be nicer, with the servants and every-body, to be a princess.”

“i am afraid i cannot do it,” said paul.

“then there is some reason for it,” answered his wife, looking at him sharply.

“yes, there is.”

“ah!”

“the reason is the responsibility that attaches to the very title you wish to wear.”

the lady smiled, a little scornfully perhaps.

“oh! your grubby old peasants, i suppose,” she said.

“yes. you remember, etta, what i told you before we were married—about the people, i mean?”

“oh, yes!” answered etta, glancing at the clock and hiding a little yawn behind her fan.

“i did not tell you all,” went on paul, “partly because it was inexpedient, partly because i feared it might bore you. i only told you that i was vaguely interested in the peasants, and thought it would be a good thing if they could be gradually educated into a greater self-respect, a greater regard for cleanliness and that sort of thing.”

“yes, dear, i remember,” answered etta, listlessly contemplating her gloved hands.

“well, i have not contented myself with thinking this during the last two or three years. i have tried to put it into practice. steinmetz and i have lived at osterno six months of the year on purpose to organize matters on the estate. i was deeply implicated in the—charity league—”

etta dropped her fan with a clatter into the fender.

“oh! i hope it is not broken,” she gasped, with a singular breathlessness.

“i do not think so,” replied paul, picking up the fan and returning it to her. “why, you look quite white! what does it matter if it is broken? you have others.”

“yes, but—” etta paused, opening the fan and examining the sticks so closely that her face was hidden by the feathers. “yes, but i like this one. what is the charity league, dear?”

“it was a large organization gotten up by the hereditary nobles of russia to educate the people and better their circumstances by discriminate charity. of course it had to be kept secret, as the bureaucracy is against any attempt to civilize the people—against education or the dissemination of news. the thing was organized. we were just getting to work when some one stole the papers of the league from the house of count stipan lanovitch and sold them to the government. the whole thing was broken up; lanovitch and others were exiled, i bolted home, and steinmetz faced the storm alone in osterno. he was too clever for them, and nothing was brought home to us. but you will understand that it is necessary for us to avoid any notoriety, to live as quietly and privately as possible.”

“yes, of course; but—”

“but what?”

“you can never go back to russia,” said etta slowly, feeling her ground, as it were.

“oh, yes, i can. i was just coming to that. i want to go back this winter. there is so much to be done. and i want you to come with me.”

“no, paul. no, no! i couldn’t do that!” cried etta, with a ring of horror in her voice, strangely out of keeping with her peaceful and luxurious surroundings.

“why not?” asked the man who had never known fear.

“oh, i should be afraid. i couldn’t. i hate russia!”

“but you don’t know it.”

“no,” answered etta, turning away and busying herself with her long silken train. “no, of course not. only petersburg, i mean. but i have heard what it is. so cold and dismal and miserable. i feel the cold so horribly. i wanted to go to the riviera this winter. i really think, paul, you are asking me too much.”

“i am only asking a proof that you care for me.”

etta gave a little laugh—a nervous laugh with no mirth in it.

“a proof! but that is so bourgeois and unnecessary. haven’t you proof enough, since i am your wife?”

paul looked at her without any sign of yielding. his attitude, his whole being, was expressive of that immovability of purpose which had hitherto been concealed from her by his quiet manner. steinmetz knew of the mental barrier within this anglo-russian soul, against which prayer and argument were alike unavailing. the german had run against it once or twice in the course of their joint labors, and had invariably given way at once.

etta looked at him. the color was coming back to her face in patches. there was something unsteady in her eyes—something suggesting that for the first time in her life she was daunted by a man. it was not paul’s speech, but his silence that alarmed her. she felt that trivial arguments, small feminine reasons, were without weight.

“now that you are married,” she said, “i do not think you have any right to risk your life and your position for a fad.”

“i have done it with impunity for the last two or three years,” he answered. “with ordinary precautions the risk is small. i have begun the thing now; i must go on with it.”

“but the country is not safe for us—for you.”

“oh, yes, it is,” answered paul. “as safe as ever it has been.”

etta paused. she turned round and looked into the fire. he could not see her face.

“then the ch—charity league is forgotten?” she said.

“no,” answered her husband quietly. “it will not be forgotten until we have found out who sold us to the government.”

etta’s lips moved in a singular way. she drew them in and held them with her teeth. for a moment her beautiful face wore a hunted expression of fear.

“what will you gain by that?” she asked evenly.

“i? oh, nothing. i do not care one way or the other. but there are some people who want the man—very much.”

etta drew in a long, deep breath.

“i will go to osterno with you, if you like,” she said. “only—only i must have maggie with me.”

“yes, if you like,” answered paul, in some surprise.

the clock struck ten, and etta’s eyes recovered their brightness. womanlike, she lived for the present. the responsibility of the future is essentially a man’s affair. the present contained a ball, and it was only in the future that osterno and russia had to be faced. let us also give etta alexis her due. she was almost fearless. it is permissible to the bravest to be startled. she was now quite collected. the even, delicate color had returned to her face.

“maggie is such a splendid companion,” she said lightly. “she is so easy to please. i think she would come if you asked her, paul.”

“if you want her, i shall ask her, of course; but it may hinder us a little. i thought you might be able to help us—with the women, you know.”

there was a queer little smile on etta’s face—a smile, one might have thought, of contempt.

“yes, of course,” she said. “it is so nice to be able to do good with one’s money.”

paul looked at her in his slow, grave way, but he said nothing. he knew that his wife was cleverer and brighter than himself. he was simple enough to think that this superiority of intellect might be devoted to the good of the peasants of osterno.

“it is not a bad place,” he said—“a very fine castle, one of the finest in europe. before i came away i gave orders for your rooms to be done up. i should like every thing to be nice for you.”

“i know you would, dear,” she answered, glancing at the clock. (the carriage was ordered for a quarter-past ten.) “but i suppose,” she went on, “that, socially speaking, we shall be rather isolated. 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 stipan 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.

he held open the door for her to pass out, gravely polite even to his wife—this old-fashioned man.

“yes,” he answered; “but why do you want me to ask her?”

“because i want her to come.”