While some of the guests are contented merely to admire the decorations of the garden-room, others suggest improvements. They cannot quite agree us to where the musicians should be placed, and the band migrates from one spot to another, like a set of homeless fugitives; in one place the music is too loud, in another it is not loud enough. Hilary's nasal, arrogant voice is heard everywhere in command. At last the band is stationed just before the large western window of the room. Some one suggests trying a waltz. Kilary waltzes with Selina. Treurenberg watches the pair. They waltz in the closest embrace, her head almost resting on his shoulder.

Once Lato might have remonstrated with his wife upon such an exhibition of herself; but to-day, ah, how indifferent he is to it all! He turns away from the crowd and noise, and walks beyond the circle of light into the park. Here a hand is laid on his shoulder. He turns: Harry has followed him.

"What is the matter, old fellow?" he asks, good-humouredly. "I do not like your looks to-day."

"I cannot get Ada Reinsfeld out of my head," Treurenberg rejoins, in a low tone.

"Did you know her?" asks Harry.

"Yes; did you?"

"Yes, but not until after her marriage. I liked her extremely; in fact, I have rarely met a more charming woman. And she seemed to me serious-minded and thoroughly sincere. The story to-day affected me profoundly."

"Did you notice that not one of the women had a good word to say for the poor thing until they knew that she was dead?" Treurenberg asks, his voice sounding hard and stern.

"Yes, I noticed it," replies Harry, scanning his friend attentively.

"They may perhaps waste a wreath of immortelles upon her coffin," Treurenberg goes on, in the same hard tone, "but not one of them would have offered her a hand while she lived."

"Well, she did not lose much in the friendship of the women present to-day," Harry observes, dryly; "but, unfortunately, I am afraid that far nobler and more generous-minded women also withdrew their friendship from poor Ada; and, in fact, we cannot blame them. We cannot require our mothers and sisters to visit without remonstrance a woman who has run away from her husband and is living with another man."

"Run away; living with another man: how vulgar that sounds!" Treurenberg exclaims, angrily.

"Our language has no other words for this case."

"I do not comprehend you; you judge as harshly as the rest."

They have walked on and have reached a rustic seat quite in the shade, beyond the light even of the coloured lamps. Harry sits down; Lato follows his example.

"How am I to judge, then?" Harry asks.

"In my eyes Ada was a martyr," Treurenberg asserts.

"So she was in mine," Harry admits.

"I have the greatest admiration for her."

"And I only the deepest compassion," Harry declares, adding, in a lower tone, "I say not a word in blame of her; Niki was the guiltier of the two. A really noble woman, when she loves, forgets to consider the consequences of her conduct, especially when pity sanctifies her passion and atones in her eyes for her sin. She sees an ideal life before her, and does not doubt that she shall attain it. Ada believed that she should certainly procure her divorce, and that all would be well. She did not see the mire through which she should have to struggle to attain her end, and that even were it attained, no power on earth could wash out the stains incurred in attaining it. Niki should have spared her that; he knew life well enough to be perfectly aware of the significance of the step she took for him."

"Yes, you are right; women never know the world; they see about them only what is fair and sacred, a young girl particularly."

"Oh, in such matters a young girl is out of the question," Harry sharply interrupts.

There is an oppressive silence. Lato shivers.

"You are cold," Harry says, with marked gentleness; "come into the house."

"No, no; stay here!"

Through the silence come the strains of a waltz of Arditi's "La notte gia stendi suo manto stellato," and the faint rustle of the dancers' feet.

"How is your cousin?" Lato asks, after a while.

"I do not know. I have not spoken with her since she left Komaritz," Harry replies, evasively.

"And have you not seen her?" asks Lato.

"Yes, once; I looked over the garden-wall as I rode by. She looks pale and thin, poor child."

Lato is mute. Harry goes on:

"Do you remember, Lato? is it three or four weeks ago, the last time you were with me in Komaritz? I could jest then at my--embarrassments. I daily expected my release. Now----" he shrugs his shoulders.

"You were angry with me then; angry because I would not interfere," Lato says, with hesitation.

"Oh, it would have been useless," Harry mutters.

Instead of continuing the subject, Lato restlessly snaps a twig hanging above his head. "How terribly dry everything is!" he murmurs.

"Yes," says Harry; "so long as it was warm we looked for a storm; the cool weather has come without rain, and everything is dead."

"The spring will revive it all, and the blessing of the coming year will be doubled," Lato whispers, in a low, soft tone that rings through Harry's soul for years afterwards.

"Harry! Harry! where are you? Come, try one turn with me." It is Paula's powerful voice that calls thus. She is steering directly for the spot where the friends are seated.

"Give my love to Zdena, when you see her," Lato whispers in his friend's ear as he clasps Harry's hand warmly, and then vanishes among the dark shrubbery before the young fellow is aware of it.