"My dear Baroness,--

"Will you and all your family give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on Sunday next, at six o'clock? We wish to surprise you with the revelation of a secret that will, we think, interest you.

"I hear you have a friend with you. It would, of course, be an added pleasure if Baron Wenkendorf would join us on Sunday.

"Hoping for a favourable reply, I am

"Sincerely yours,

"Emilie Harfink."

This note the Baroness Leskjewitsch takes from an envelope smelling of violets and adorned with an Edelweiss, and reads aloud in a depressed tone to her husband, her niece, and her cousin, all of whom listen with a more or less contemptuous expression of countenance.

Not that the note is in itself any more awkward and pretentious than other notes of invitation,--no; but the fact that it comes from Baroness Harfink is quite sufficient to make the Zirkow circle suspicious and ironical.

Three days have passed since the afternoon when Harry and Zdena quarrelled, and Zdena has had time thoroughly to repent her experiment.

The little company is assembled at the breakfast-table in a small summer-house whence there is a view of a tiny fountain leaping about a yard into the air from an oval basin.

Frau Rosamunda thinks the view of this fountain refreshing; the major despises the plaything, calls this breakfast-arbour the "wash-house," or, when he means to be particularly disagreeable, "Wash-Basin Hall," assuming the attitude, as he so designates it, of a kangaroo,--his elbows pressed to his sides, the palms of his hands turned outwards,--and availing himself of his most elegant German accent, which is unfortunately rather unnatural.

"Surprise us? What surprise can the Baroness Harfink prepare for us in which we shall take any interest?" Frau Rosamunda says, musingly, laying the note down beside her plate.

"Oh, leave me out! She knows that you are prone to curiosity, and she is doing what she can to attract you to her house," the major declares. "The 'surprise' is the bit of cheese in the Dobrotschau mouse-trap,--that is all. It may be a new service of old china, or some Japanese rug with golden monsters and chimeras sprawling about on it."

"No; there is a tone of exultation about the note which indicates something far grander," says Frau Rosamunda, thoughtfully, buttering a piece of bread. "I rather think there is a new son-in-law to the fore."

"H'm! FrÄulein Paula's betrothal would certainly be a matter of special importance to us," the major says, contemptuously. "Perhaps it might make Harry ill. He made violent love to her the other day!" and the old cuirassier glances at Zdena. She is sipping a cup of tea, however, and her face cannot be seen.

"I thought perhaps," Frau Rosamunda observes, "that Harry might----"

"No, Rosa. Your genius is really too great," the major interrupts her, "if you can fancy for a moment that Harry meant anything serious by his attentions to that village bar-maid."

Zdena has put down her teacup; her delicate nostrils quiver disdainfully, her charming mouth expresses decided scorn. How could Harry suppose----? Nonsense!

"Well, stranger things have come to pass," observes Frau Rosamunda, sagely. "Do not forget that Lato Treurenberg has married into the Harfink family."

"Oh, he--he was in debt--h'm!--at least his father was in debt," the major explains. "That is entirely different. But a man like Harry would never risk his colossal inheritance from his uncle for the sake of Paula Harfink. If it were for some one else, he might do so; but that red-cheeked dromedary--ridiculous!"

"I really do not understand you. You seemed perfectly devoted to her the other day," rejoins Frau Rosamunda. "You all languished at her feet,--even you too, Roderich."

Baron Wenkendorf looks up from a pile of letters and papers which he has been sorting.

"What is the subject under discussion?" he asks. Dressed in the extreme of fashion, in a light, summer suit, a coloured shirt with a very high collar, a thin, dark-blue cravat with polka-dots, and the inevitable Scotch cap, with fluttering ribbons at the back of the neck, he would seem much more at home, so far as his exterior is concerned, on the shore at Trouville, or in a magnificent park of ancient oaks with a feudal castle in the background, than amidst the modest Zirkow surroundings. He suspects this himself, and, in order not to produce a crushing effect where he is, he is always trying to display the liveliest interest in all the petty details of life at Zirkow. "What is the subject under discussion?" he asks, with an amiable smile.

"Oh, the Harfink."

"Still?" says Wenkendorf, lifting his eyebrows ironically. "The young lady's ears must burn. She seems to me to have been tolerably well discussed during the last three days."

"I merely observed that you were all fire and flame for her while she was here," Frau Rosamunda persists, "and that consequently I do not understand why you now criticise her so severely."

"The impression produced upon men by that kind of woman is always more dazzling than when it is lasting," says the major.

"H'm!--she certainly is a very beautiful person, but--h'm!--not a lady," remarks Wenkendorf; and his clear, full voice expresses the annoyance which it is sure to do whenever conversation touches upon the mushroom growth of modern parvenues. "Who are these Harfinks, after all?"

"People who have made their own way to the front," growls the major.

"How?"

"By good luck, industry, and assurance," replies the major. "Old Harfink used to go regularly to his work every morning, with his pickaxe on his shoulder; he slowly made his way upward, working in the iron-mines about here; then he married a wealthy baker's daughter, and gradually absorbed all the business of the district. He was very popular. I can remember the time when every one called him 'Peter.' Next he was addressed as 'Sir,' and it came to be the fashion to offer him your hand, but before giving you his he used to wipe it on his coat-tail. He was comical, but a very honest fellow, a plain man who never tried to move out of his proper sphere. I think we never grudged him his wealth, because it suited him so ill, and because he did not know what to do with it." And the major reflectively pours a little rum into his third cup of tea.

"I do not object to that kind of parvenu," says Wenkendorf. "The type is an original one. But there is nothing to my mind more ridiculous than the goldfish spawned in a muddy pond suddenly fancying themselves unable to swim in anything save eau de cologne. H'm, h'm! And that plain, honest fellow was, you tell me, the father of the lovely Paula?"

"God forbid!" exclaims the major, bursting into a laugh at the mere thought.

"You have a tiresome way of beginning far back in every story you tell, Paul," Frau Rosamunda complains. "You begin all your pedigrees with Adam and Eve."

"And you have a detestable habit of interrupting me," her husband rejoins, angrily. "If you had not interrupted me I should have finished long ago."

"Oh, yes, we all know that. But first you would have given us a description of old Harfink's boots!" Frau Rosamunda persists.

"They really were very remarkable boots," the major declares, solemnly. "They always looked as if, instead of feet, they had a peck of onions inside them."

"I told you so. Now comes the description of his cap," sighs Frau Rosamunda.

"And the lovely Paula's origin retreats still further into obscurity," Wenkendorf says, with well-bred resignation.

"She is old Harfink's great-grand-daughter," says Zdena, joining for the first time in the conversation.

"Old Harfink had two sons," continues the major, who hates to have the end of his stories told prematurely; "two sons who developed social ambition, and both married cultivated wives,--wives who looked down upon them, and with whom they could not agree. If I do not mistake, there was a sister, too. Tell me, Rosel, was there not a sister who married an Italian?"

"I do not know," replies Frau Rosamunda. "The intricacies of the Harfink genealogy never inspired me with the faintest interest."

The major bites his lip.

"One thing more," says Wenkendorf. "How have you managed to avoid an acquaintance with the Harfinks for so long, if the family has belonged to the country here for several generations?"

"Harfink number two never lived here," the major explains. "And they owned the iron-mines, but no estate. Only last year the widow Harfink bought Dobrotschau,--gallery of ancestral portraits, old suits of armour, and all. The mines have been sold to a stock company."

"Not a very pleasing neighbourhood, I should say," observes Wenkendorf.

"'Surprise you with the revelation of a secret,'" Frau Rosamunda reads, thoughtfully, in a low tone from the note beside her plate.

And then all rise from table. Zdena, who has been silent during breakfast, twitches her uncle's sleeve, and, without looking at him, says,--

"Uncle dear, can I have the carriage?"

The major eyes her askance: "What do you want of the carriage?"

"I should like to drive over to Komaritz; Hedwig will think it strange that I have not been there for so long."

"H'm! don't you think Hedwig might do without you for a little while longer?" says the major, who is in a teasing humour.

"Oh, let her drive over," Frau Rosamunda interposes. "I promised to send the housekeeper there a basket of Reine-Claudes for preserving, and Zdena can take them with her. And, Zdena, you might stop at Dobrotschau; I will leave it to your diplomatic skill to worm out the grand secret for us. I protest against assisting on Sunday at its solemn revelation."

"Then shall I refuse the invitation for you?"

"Yes; tell them that we expect guests ourselves on Sunday. And invite the Komaritz people to come and dine, that it may be true," the major calls after the girl.

She nods with a smile, and trips into the castle. It is easy to see that her heart is light.

"Queer little coquette!" thinks the major, adding to himself, "But she's a charming creature, for all that."