Fräulein Albertine nodded assent: “You are quite right, not to get any such idea into your head. Men of such elevated rank seldom have honest intentions—certainly not with one of the ‘emancipated’ women.”
“Well, I should have liked Franka to make such a match,” said the great-aunt soothingly. “Morganatic marriages are frequently contracted. But you will never lack suitors, for you are pretty; and such little escapades as lecturing will be forgiven you, especially as in the mean time you have managed to retain your respectability.... But where is Rockhaus?”
“Gone out for a walk.”
“And you here alone? That is not correct. You must be very circumspect. What I was going to say apropos of your getting married ... there is a cousin of mine—not Coriolan—no longer as young as he used to be, a widower, but of very high nobility; that would be worth while. Do you know, with the Sielenburg estates you ought to marry into the aristocracy, so that they would come into the right hands again. You yourself could get an assured position in society and lead a happy life. Certainly, you could never feel lastingly contented among all these Americans and Russians and vagabond people, and wandering round yourself with them.... I should wish my brother’s grandchild a pleasanter existence: I want to see her respectably settled.... Didn’t some one knock? It must be Coriolan; he promised to come round here and fetch us. He has only to get the railway tickets for us, ... I was right ... it is he. Come in, come right in, Coriolan; Franka will be glad to see you.”
Franka was, indeed, glad—but chiefly because these three inestimable relatives were going to betake themselves away, and she firmly proposed to break off once more the interrupted and patched-up acquaintance. Behind Coriolan followed a servant, who brought the customary great basket of violets.
“From His Royal Highness, Prince Victor Adolph,” said he.
A vivid flush mounted to Franka’s cheeks. She indicated with her hand that the basket was to be placed on the table. The servant obeyed and left the room.
“Aha!” exclaimed the Countess Adele sagaciously.
“Ei, ei,” commented Fräulein Albertine.
Coriolan felt that it was incumbent on him to say something. “When a pretty woman sings or dances or speaks on the stage, then they send her flowers—that’s the way it goes.”