A SUSPECTED HOUSE The Countess Lanovitch and Catrina were sitting together in the too-luxurious drawing-room that overlooked the English Quay and the Neva.

The double windows were rigorously closed, while the inner panes were covered with a thick rime.

The sun was just setting over the marshes that border the upper waters of the Gulf of Finland, and lit up the snow-clad city with a rosy glow which penetrated to the room where the two women sat.
Catrina was restless, moving from chair to chair, from fire-place to window, with a lack of repose which would certainly have touched the nerves of a less lethargic person than the countess.
"My dear child!" that lady was exclaiming with lackadaisical horror, "we cannot go to Thors yet.

The thought is too horrible.

You never think of my health.