Punctually at three o’clock, he rapped with his silver-handled walking-stick upon the glass door at the foot of Lycabettus. He had learnt to ask in Greek for the ladies, and with a stare and smile of frank familiarity, Maria supposed it was Andromache and not the others he wanted. The Austrian aristocrat, to whom all evidences of democracy and ill-bred freedom were repugnant, reproved her with a slight touch of haughty insolence, and pointedly repeated his wish to see Kyria Karapolos and her family.
“Kyria Karapolos, the fair young foreigner, is here,” shouted Maria, and left him to find his way into the little salon.
“My dear Monsieur Ehrenstein, it is a pleasure to me to welcome you,” said Kyria Karapolos, hastening to join him.
Her French was fluent, but droll enough to make conversation with her a surprise and a puzzle.
“I have come to tell you that my uncle and aunt have planned an excursion to the Peloponnesus, and they insist on my accompanying them,” Rudolph began at once, very dolorously indeed.
“Well, of course you must please your uncle and aunt. It will make them the more disposed afterwards to assent to your happiness. Here is Andromache. Monsieur Ehrenstein has to leave Athens for a little while. It is quite right. He must not displease those who stand to him as father and mother.”
Andromache blanched to the lips, and then a wave of red flowed into her face. Rudolph felt that he loved her more than ever, and while he held her hand, a smile struggled through the pain of his eyes.
“It is so cruel to have to leave you just now, Andromache.”
She dared not trust herself to speak, for she hardly knew how much it is permitted a modest maiden to say to her lover. But her pretty eyes said a great deal more than she dreamed. Rudolph looked into them, and a happy light broke over his face.