"She? She has no native country. The Count was a Pole, and the Countess came from America. At present she is living in Holland."
"Widow—or divorced?" asked one of the chambermaids.
"Divorced, of course! That's much more interesting."
"And that young Hollander? Is he related to her?"
"What! He's a fellow-traveler. They met there."
"Shall we not start out again, Jo?" asked Marjon, as they sat together eating their supper of brown bread and cheese, in the same cramped, smoky room where the humble Hercules and his little daughter were also sitting—dressed, at present, in shabby civilian clothes, and each provided with a glass of beer.
"I am going to take my song," said Johannes.
"Manage it some way, Jo; I'll have nothing to do with those people."
Johannes ate his supper in silence. But, secretly, his feeling toward Marjon grew cooler, and she dropped in his estimation. She was jealous, or insensitive to what was beautiful or noble in people. She had also lived so long among dirty and rude folk! Oh, those two dear little girls! They were nobler and more refined beings. Softly—fervently—Johannes repeated their names: "Olga! Frieda!"
Then, as true as you live, there came a gold-bebraided small boy from the big hotel, bearing a note so perfumed that the close little room was filled with its sweetness; and the beer drinkers sniffed it with astonishment.