"What is the matter? What is it?" Treurenberg asks, solicitously.

"Nothing, nothing," Olga replies; "nothing at which I ought to take offence." Then, after a short pause, she adds, "On the contrary, he did me the honour to offer to make me Countess Fainacky. The idea, it is true, seemed to occur to him rather tardily, after conducting himself impertinently."

Lato twirls his moustache nervously, and murmurs, in a dull, constrained voice, "Well, and could you not bring yourself to consent?"

"Lato!" the girl exclaims, indignantly.

The bitter expression on Lato's face makes him look quite unlike himself as he says, "A girl who sets out to marry must not be too nice, you see!"

His head is turned away from her; silence reigns around; the sultry quiet lies like a spell upon everything.

He hears a half-suppressed ejaculation, the rustle of a robe, short, quick steps, and, looking round, sees her tall figure walking rapidly away from him, offended pride and wounded feeling expressed in its every motion. He ought to let her go, but he cannot, and he hurries after her; almost before she is aware of his presence, he lightly touches her on the arm.

"Olga, my poor Olga, I did not mean this!" he exclaims, gently. "Be reasonable, my child; I did not mean to wound you, but to give you a common-sense view of the affair."

She looks away from him, and suddenly bursts into irrepressible sobs.

"You poor child! Hush, I pray you! I cannot bear this! Have I really grieved you--I--why, 'tis ridiculous--I, who would have my hand cut off to serve you? Come, be calm." And he draws her down upon a rustic bench and takes a seat beside her.

Her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. He takes her hand in his and strokes it gently.

A delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him, but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl's hand in his and gazing into her eyes.

"Why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply.

He is confused, and drops her hand.

"For a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says, reproachfully. "Have you been vexed with me? Did I do anything to displease you?"

"I have had so much to worry me," he murmurs.

"Poor Lato! I thought so. If you only knew how my heart aches for you! Can you not tell me some of your troubles? They are so much easier to bear when shared with another."

And before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses it against her cheek.

Just at that moment he sees the Pole, who has paused in departing and turned towards the pair; the man's sallow face, seen in the distance above Olga's dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent expression.

As soon, however, as he becomes aware that Treurenberg has perceived him, he vanishes again.

Lato's confusion increases; he rises, saying, "And now be good, Olga; go home and bathe your eyes, that no one may see that you have been crying."

"Oh, no one will take any notice, and there is plenty of time before dinner. Take a walk with me in the park; it is not so warm as it was."

"I cannot, my child; I have a letter to write."

"As you please;" and she adds, in an undertone, "You are changed towards me."

Before he can reply, she is gone.

The path along which she has disappeared is flecked with crimson,--the petals of the rose that she had worn in her girdle.

Lato feels as if rudely awakened from unconsciousness. He walks unsteadily, and covers his eyes with his hand as if dazzled by even the tempered light of the afternoon. The terrible bliss for which he longs, of which he is afraid, seems so near that he has but to reach out his hand and grasp it. He stamps his foot in horror of himself. What! a pure young girl! his wife's relative! The very thought is impossible! He is tormented by the feverish fancies of overwrought nerves. He shakes himself as if to be rid of a burden, then turns and walks rapidly along a path leading in an opposite direction from where the scattered rose-leaves are lying on the ground.

As he passes on with eyes downcast, he almost runs against the Pole. The glances of the two men meet; involuntarily Lato averts his from Fainacky's face, and as he does so he is conscious of a slight embarrassment, which the other takes a malicious delight in noticing.

"Aha!" he begins; "your long interview with the fair Olga seems to have had a less agreeable effect upon your mood than I had anticipated."

Such a remark would usually have called forth from Lato a sharp rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as it were.

"She was much agitated," he murmurs. "I had some trouble in soothing her. She--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one."

"Well, you certainly do your best to improve it," Fainacky says, hypocritically.

"And you to make it impossible!" Lato exclaims, angrily.

"Did the fair Olga complain of me, then?" drawls the other.

"There was no need that she should," Treurenberg goes on to say. "Do you suppose that I need anything more than eyes in my head to see how you follow her about and stare at her?"

Fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly.

"Well, yes, I confess, I have paid her some attention; she pleases me. Yes, yes, I do not deny my sensibility to female charms. I never played the saint!"

"Indeed! At least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify your importunity," Treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the simpering specimen of humanity before him. "You have offered her your hand."

Scarcely have the words left his lips when Treurenberg is conscious that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man.

Fainacky turns pale to the lips, and his expression is one of intense malice.

"It is true," he says, "that I so far forgot myself for a moment as to offer your youthful protÉgeÉ my hand. Good heavens! I am not the first man of rank who, in a moment of enthusiasm and to soothe the irritated nerves of a shy beauty, has offered to marry a girl of low extraction. The obstacle, however, which bars my way to her heart appears to be of so serious a nature that I shall make no attempt to remove it."

He utters the words with a provoking smile and most malicious emphasis.

"To what obstacle do you refer?" Lato exclaims, in increasing anger.

"Can you seriously ask me that question?" the Pole murmurs, in a low voice like the hiss of a serpent.

Transported with anger, Treurenberg lifts his hand; the Pole scans him quietly.

"If you wish for a duel, there is no need to resort to so drastic a measure to provoke it. But do you seriously think it would be well for the fair fame of your--your lovely protÉgeÉ that you should fight for her?" And, turning on his heel, Fainacky walks towards the castle.

Lato stands as if rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted on the ground.