“You think, then,” resumed the baron, still addressing Olga, but speaking quite loud, “that Countess Margaret would not be touched by a lover’s plea, unless it should be urged by a young and handsome man.”
“I am sure of it,” answered Olga, lowering her voice, “and no man is handsome, in her eyes, who is more than twenty-five years old.”
Olga intended this as a delicate compliment to her semi-centennial intended, but he was not in a good humor, and the arrow missed aim.
“She is probably quite right,” he replied, so low that no one but the young Russian could hear him; “the longer one lives after that fortunate age the more one loses one’s good looks, and the less can he expect to marry for love.”
“True,” said Olga, “if he does lose his good looks, but—”
“But even if he does not become altogether horrible,” persisted the baron, “he will still be fortunate, if he is able to contract a sensible marriage.”
Olga was about to reply, but he closed her mouth by adding:
“Do not find fault with that poor child. She has one great merit in my eyes—she is sincere. When she hates people she shows it so frankly, that the fortunate man who shall succeed in pleasing her may trust her completely. She is a person who will never deceive.”
Olga had no opportunity to reply, for the baron turned away and began talking to some one else.
The young Russian was extremely irritated, and very much disquieted. When they arose from the table, Margaret, who was equally anxious, though from a very different cause, approached her.