"But that would be horrible, papa," exclaimed Thea, "when he promised Bernhard so faithfully that he would be prudent----"
"He is too heedless!"
"And yet such a dear good fellow withal," Thea said, affectionately, inwardly resolving to entreat Werner on the morrow to have an eye upon her brother-in-law while Bernhard was away.
"Yes, he is an amiable fellow, but thoroughly untrustworthy," Herr von Rosen rejoined.
Alma said nothing, but her cheek flushed and paled. She knew her father was right, but then she could find so many reasons for excusing Lothar. Thea looked very grave and sad. She suspected how it stood with her sister. She had honestly taken pains to know Lothar, and, although she could not but be prepossessed by his frank amiability, she had arrived at the conviction that he was wavering and uncertain in his views and principles. She had not sufficient experience of life to judge whether his character would ever become firm and stable, but with true feminine instinct she suspected what she could not know, and felt instinctively that it would cost her many an anxious fear to see her sister's happiness intrusted to a man like Lothar. Often when Alma had involuntarily betrayed her affection Thea had wished for an instant that Lothar might reciprocate it, but the next moment she would gladly have known them miles asunder. And on the morrow they were to dance together in her house, and to enjoy all the opportunity for familiar intercourse afforded by an entire evening! She wished Alma had fallen in love with Werner, who she could see was attracted by her. Else why should he come to Eichhof whenever Alma was there? And why else had she so often surprised that dreamy expression in his eyes? Oh, if Alma had only loved him! He was so trustworthy and honourable! Long after she had retired for the night her thoughts were occupied with her sister and the young officers.
CHAPTER XV.
[IN BERLIN.]
The chorus was intoning a grand polonaise, to the strains of which a glittering train of splendidly-attired couples was marching around the magnificent ball-room of the Berlin Opera-House. The Emperor's tall, venerable figure was followed by the various royal pairs, at whose approach the guests of the opera-ball stood in line and bowed respectfully while the court passed by. Twice the royal party made the circuit of the room, and then for the most part retired to their private boxes. Meanwhile the glittering crowd of the public--the truly mixed metropolitan society--thronged the foyers and public boxes. Magnificent toilettes surged up and down the broad flight of steps that to-night replaced the box usually appropriated to the court, and that led down to the parquette, now floored over for the dancers, the number of whom was still on the increase. At the head of these steps stood a couple who had already been the subject of frequent remark. The cavalier was a distinguished, aristocratic figure; the lady, unique in air, with bright sparkling eyes and a bewitching smile upon her delicately curved lips, wore a robe of sea-green satin, that suited well the red gold of her abundant hair.
"Count Bernhard Eichhof, the youngest member of the Reichstag, and Frau von Wronsky," whispered one of the initiated to a guest from the provinces.
Count Bernhard Eichhof and Fran von Wronksy! How came it to pass that her hand rested on his arm? How came it to pass that she was clever, witty, amusing for all the rest of the world, and gentle, often humble, always femininely delicate and reserved towards him alone? The one manner perhaps explained the other.