"That," went on Paul, "rests entirely with yourself. You may be sure that I will tell no one. I am not likely to discuss it with any one whomsoever." Etta's stony eyes softened for a moment. She seemed to be alternating between hatred of this man and love of him--a dangerous state for any woman. It is possible that, if he had held his hand out to her, she would have been at his feet in a wild, incoherent passion of self-hatred and abasement. Such moments as these turn our lives and determine them. Paul knew nothing of the issue hanging on this moment, on the passing softness of her eyes. He knew nothing of the danger in which this woman stood, of the temptation with which she was wrestling. He went on in his blindness, went on being only just. "If," he said, "you have any further questions to ask, I shall always be at your service. For the next few days I shall be busy. The peasants are in a state of discontent verging on rebellion. We cannot at present arrange for your journey to Tver, but as soon as it is possible I will tell you." He looked at the clock, and made an imperceptible movement toward the door. Etta glanced up sharply. She did not seem to be breathing. "Is that all?" she asked, in a dull voice. There was a long silence, tense and throbbing, the great silence of the steppe. "I think so," answered Paul at length. "I have tried to be just." "Then justice is very cruel." "Not so cruel as the woman who for a few pounds sells the happiness of thousands of human beings. Steinmetz advised me to speak to you. He suggested the possibility of circumstances of which we are ignorant. He said that you might be able to explain." Silence. "Can you explain?" Silence. Etta sat looking into the fire. The little clock hurried on. At length Etta drew a deep breath. "You are the sort of man," she said, "who does not understand temptation. You are strong. The devil leaves the strong in peace. You have found virtue easy because you have never wanted money. Your position has always been assured. Your name alone is a password through the world. Your sort are always hard on women who--who--What have I done, after all?" Some instinct bade her rise to her feet and stand before him--tall, beautiful, passionate, a woman in a thousand, a fit mate for such as he. Her beautiful hair in burnished glory round her face gleamed in the firelight. Her white fingers clenched, her arms thrown back, her breast panting beneath the lace, her proud face looking defiance into his--no one but a prince could have braved this princess. "What have I done?" she cried a second time. "I have only fought for myself, and if I have won, so much the greater credit. I am your wife. I have done nothing the law can touch. Thousands of women moving in our circle are not half so good as I am. I swear before God I am----" "Hush!" he said, with upraised hand. "I never doubted that."