"He doesn't show it," said she, with a shrug.
I understood that little point in Wetter's code; besides, his humour seemed just now too bitter for love-making. If Coralie felt any resentment, it did not go very deep. She turned her eyes from Wetter to my face.
"You're going to be married very soon?" she said.
"In a month," said I. "I'm having my last fling. You perceived our high spirits?"
"I've seen her picture. She's pretty. And I've seen the Countess von Sempach."
"You know about her?"
"Have you forgotten that you used to speak of her? Ah, yes, you've forgotten all that you used to say! The Countess is still handsome."
"What of that? So are you."
"True, it doesn't matter much," Coralie admitted. "Does your Princess love you?"
"Don't you love your husband?"
A faint slow smile bent her lips as she glanced at Struboff—himself and his locket.
"Nobody acts without a motive," said I. "Not even in marrying."
The bitterness that found expression in this little sneer elicited no sympathetic response from Coralie. I was obliged to conclude that she considered her marriage a success; at least that it was doing what she had expected from it. At this moment she yawned in her old, pretty, lazy way. Certainly there were no signs of romantic misery or tragic disillusionment about her. Again I asked myself whether my sympathy were not more justly due to Struboff—Struboff, who sat now smoking a big cigar and wobbling his head solemnly in answer to the emphatic
