During the morning each was occupied in individual affairs. At luncheon time they met again. Etta was now almost defiant. She was on her mettle. She was so near to loving Paul that a hatred of him welled up within her breast whenever he repelled her advances with uncompromising reticence. They did not know--perhaps she hardly knew herself--that the opening of the side-door depended upon her humor. In the afternoon Etta and Maggie sat, as was their wont, in the morning-room looking out over the cliff. Of late their intercourse had been slightly strained. They had never had much in common, although circumstances had thrown their lives together. It is one of the ills to which women are heir that they have frequently to pass their whole lives in the society of persons with whom they have no real sympathy. Both these women were conscious of the little rift within the lute, but such rifts are better treated with silence. That which comes to interfere with a woman's friendship will not often bear discussion. At dusk Steinmetz went out. He had an appointment with the starosta. Paul was sitting in his own room, making a pretence of work, about five o'clock, when Steinmetz came hurriedly to him. "A new development," he said shortly. "Come to my room." Paul rose and followed him through the double doorway built in the thickness of the wall. Steinmetz's large room was lighted only by a lamp standing on the table. All the light was thrown on the desk by a large green shade, leaving the rest of the room in a semi-darkness. At the far end of the room a man was standing in an expectant attitude. There was something furtive about this intruder, and at the same time familiar to Paul, who peered at him through the gloom. Then the man came hurriedly forward. "Ah, Pavlo, Pavlo!" he said in a deep, hollow voice. "I could not expect you to know me." He threw his arms around him, and embraced him after the simple manner of Russia. Then he held him at arm's length. "Stépan!" said Paul. "No, I did not know you." Stépan Lanovitch was still holding him at arm's length, examining him with the large faint blue eyes which so often go with an exaggerated philanthropy. "Old," he muttered, "old! Ah, my poor Pavlo! I heard in Kiew--you know how we outlaws hear such things--that you were in trouble, so I came to you." Steinmetz in the background raised his patient eyebrows. "There are two men in the world," went on the voluble Lanovitch, "who can manage the moujiks of Tver--you and I; so I came. I will help you, Pavlo; I will stand by you. Together we can assuredly quell this revolt." Paul nodded, and allowed himself to be embraced a second time. He had long known Stépan Lanovitch of Thors as one of the many who go about the world doing good with their eyes shut. For the moment he had absolutely no use for this well-meaning blunderer.