Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers, writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters; but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver, and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened and Maryan appeared, hat in hand.
"Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time."
He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son quickly.
"Are you in love with that singer?" asked he.
Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly.
"What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that beautiful Bianca—"
"Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on special trains," finished Darvid.
"Have you heard of that, father?"
"I have seen it."
"Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you."