And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight.
"The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk, a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our plans into action; know how to wish."
At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil, laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began:
"Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go to America—beyond the seas—"
"Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not that! Not that! Something different—entirely different."
At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the door-latch.
"Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked:
"Who is there?"
There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a timid, and, as it were, imploring manner.
"You cannot come in," repeated Irene.