Hans Wehlau, prudently avoiding another encounter with his father, had joined Michael, and was listening, with apparent interest, to what the latter had to say.
"You have seen her and talked with her then?" asked Hans.
"Seen her?--yes; talked with her?--no. The Countess presented me to Fräulein von Eberstein, but I received no reply to my remarks, save an extraordinary courtesy. She is almost a child,--far too young to be introduced into society."
"A girl of sixteen is no longer a child," said Hans, irritably. "And how did you like her altogether?"
"She has a lovely little face. To be sure, I have not seen her eyes,--she held them obstinately downcast,--and I really have not heard her speak at all. The little châtelaine, as you call her, seems to possess rather a limited capacity."
The young artist bestowed upon his friend a glance of sovereign contempt. "Michael, I always doubted your taste, and now I doubt your judgment. 'Limited capacity!' Let me tell you, Gerlinda von Eberstein is cleverer than all the rest put together."
"That is a bold assertion," said Michael. "You seem very much provoked by any unfavourable word with regard to the young lady. Have you lost your heart again? How many times does this make?"
"Nothing of the sort this time; my interest in this lovely, childlike creature is entirely disinterested."
"Indeed?"