"I hardly know. I feel very strangely," replied the countess, dreamily.
"You need air, probably, my dear countess," said M. de Riancourt. "I am not at all surprised. Though the apartments are very large, this plebeian crowd renders the atmosphere suffocating, and—"
"Are you ill, Fedora?" asked the princess, with increasing uneasiness.
"Not in the least. On the contrary, the emotion I experience is full of sweetness and charm, so, my dear aunt, I scarcely know how to express—"
"Possibly it is the powerful odour of these flowers that affects you so peculiarly," suggested M. de Riancourt.
"No, it is not that. I hesitate to tell you and my aunt; you will think it so strange and absurd."
"Explain, Fedora, I beg of you."
"I will, but you will be greatly surprised," responded the young widow with a half-confidential, half-coquettish air. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, she said, in an undertone:
"It seems to me—"
"Well, my dear countess?"