"But," she said at length, "shall you--we--be allowed to do all this? I
thought that such schemes were not encouraged in Russia. It is such a
pity to pauperize the people."

"You cannot pauperize a man who has absolutely nothing," replied Paul.
"Of course, we shall have difficulties; but, together, I think we shall
be able to overcome them."

Etta smiled sympathetically, and the smile finished up, as it were, with
a gleam very like amusement. She had been vouchsafed for a moment a
vision of herself in some squalid Russian village, in a hideous
Russian-made tweed dress, dispensing the necessaries of life to a people
only little raised above the beasts of the field. The vision made her
smile, as well it might. In Petersburg life might be tolerable for a
little in the height of the season--for a few weeks of the brilliant
Northern winter--but in no other part of Russia could she dream of
dwelling.

They sat and talked of their future as lovers will, knowing as little of
it as any of us, building up castles in the air, such edifices as we
have all constructed, destined, no doubt, to the same rapid collapse as
some of us have quailed under. Paul, with lamentable honesty, talked
almost as much of his stupid peasants as of his beautiful companion,
which pleased her not too well. Etta, with a strange persistence,
brought the conversation ever back and back to the house in London, the
house in Petersburg, the great grim castle in the Government of Tver,
and the princely rent-roll. And once on the subject of Tver, Paul could
scarce be brought to leave it.

"I am going back there," he said at length.