To strange lands, far away....
Uncle Sebastian rose from his armchair and carefully opened the dining-room door. For a long time, the two old men listened....
Christopher came home from the dancing class. He rushed to Anne noisily. His eyes gleamed with boyish delight. A faded flower was stuck in his buttonhole. His hand went for ever up to the flower. He talked and talked, leaning his elbows on the piano. Anne looked at him surprised; she found him handsome. Half his face was hidden by the curls of his girlish hair. His upper lip was drawn up slightly by the upward bent of his small nose. This gave him a charming, startled expression, not to be found in any other member of the Ulwing family. Instinctively, Anne looked at her mother’s portrait....
In the evening when bedtime came, Christopher searched impatiently for his prayer book. He could not find it. He hid the flower under his pillow.
For a long time, he lay with open eyes in the dark. Once he whispered to himself: “Little Chris, I hope to see you again soon,” and in doing so he tried to imitate Sophie’s intonation. Then he drew his hand over his head slowly, gently, just as Sophie had done while speaking to his father.
He went into a peaceful rapture. He repeated the stroking, the words “Little Chris....” He repeated it often, so often that its charm wore off. It was his own voice he heard now, his own hand he felt. They ceased to cause a pleasant tremor; tired out, he went to sleep over Sophie’s flower.
When Ulwing the builder went next morning into the dining-room it was still practically dark. He always got up very early and liked to take his breakfast alone. A candle burned in the middle of the table and the flickering of its flame danced over the china and was reflected in the mirror of the plate chest. The shadows of the chair-backs were cast high up on the walls.
Christopher Ulwing read the paper rapidly.
“Nonsense,” he thought. “Send an Imperial Commissioner with full powers from Vienna? Why should they?” There was no other news besides that in the newspaper, crowded though it was with small print. As if the censor were at work again.
He carried the candle in his hand into the office. A big batch of papers lay on the table. John Hubert’s regular, careful handwriting was visible on all of them. The builder bent over his work, his pen scratched spasmodically.