be forgotten.

"Where does she live?" asked Catrina. She was unaware of the thought of
murder that was in her own heart. Nevertheless, the desire--indefinite,
shapeless--was there to kill this woman, who was tall and beautiful,
whom Paul Alexis loved.

It must be remembered in extenuation that Catrina Lanovitch had lived
nearly all her life in the province of Tver. She was not modern at all.
Deprived of the advantages of our enlightened society press, without the
benefit of our decadent fictional literature, she had lamentably narrow
views of life. She was without that deep philosophy which teaches you,
mademoiselle, who read this guileless tale, that nothing matters very
much; that love is but a passing amusement, the plaything of an hour;
that if Tom is faithless, Dick is equally amusing; while Harry's taste
in gloves and compliments is worthy of some consideration. That these
things be true--that at all events the modern young lady thinks them
true--is a matter of no doubt whatever. Has not the modern lady novelist
told us so? And is not the modern lady novelist notable for her close
observation of human nature, her impartial judgment of human motives,
her sublime truth of delineation when she sits down to describe the
thing she calls a man? By a close study of the refined feminine
literature of the day the modern young lady acquires not only the
knowledge of some startling social delinquencies--retailed, not as if
they were quite the exception, but as if they were quite the correct
thing--but also she will learn that she is human. She will realize how
utterly absurd it is to attempt to be any thing else. If persons in
books, she will reflect, are not high-minded or pure-minded, or even
clean-minded, it is useless for an ordinary person out of a book to
attempt to be any of these.

This is the lesson of some new writers, and Catrina Lanovitch had,
fortunately enough, lacked the opportunity of learning it.

She only knew that she loved Paul, and that what she wanted was Paul's
love to go with her all through her life. She was not self-analytical,
nor subtle, nor given to thinking about her own thoughts. Perhaps she
was old-fashioned enough to be romantic. If this be so, we must bear
with her romance, remembering that, at all events, romance serves to
elevate, while realism tends undoubtedly toward deterioration.

Catrina hated Etta Sydney Bamborough with a simple half-barbaric hatred
because she had gained the lo