Thus life found her at thirty-five, alone and friendless, though the Viennese were well disposed towards her upon her reappearance in their midst. But she was too embittered and cross-grained to care greatly for their applause, and accepted the love Agiropoulos offered her renown rather than her wretched self, as a kind of feeble protection from her own society. Her princely disdain for money and the making of it left her very naturally in constant debt, and this state of things was hardly calculated to improve her temper.
About this time young Ehrenstein came to Vienna in search of that distraction we are all agreed to prescribe in the first stage of bereavement. He knew Liszt, and from him procured a letter of introduction to Photini. Determined to make a good impression, he ordered expensive tailoring, and went forth to subdue in the amiable superiority of sex and social elegance. The door was opened to him by an extraordinary woman, who held a cigarette in her hand, and glared furiously upon the timid Cæsar who had come to see and conquer.
“What do you want with me, young man? I do not know you, and furthermore, I do not wish to know you. I am not at home.”
Not a reception calculated to justify a young man’s innocent and kindly estimate of his own value. Rudolph’s heart was in his mouth, and the mildest form of expostulation was checked by fright and amazement. Meeting Agiropoulos, he disclosed his hurt, upon which that good-natured individual hastened to remonstrate with his irascible friend.
“Why on earth did you treat poor Ehrenstein so badly?” he asked, surveying her with a look of impertinent amusement. “Do you know, Photini, you often provoke a fellow into wishing you were a man that he might relieve his feelings by a good open fight. But now to quarrel or reason with a woman like you! Ouf! You are impossible!”
“There is the door, if you are tired of me. If not, stay and hold your tongue,” was the contemptuous retort, between two puffs of a cigarette.
Agiropoulos had a certain sense of humor and a keen appreciation of originality in any form. He laughed, and proceeded to roll a cigarette in a very comfortable attitude.
“But really, my dear Photini, you were wrong to behave as you did to the lad. He is a very fair dilettante. He has just come from Pesth, where he saw Liszt, who gave him a letter for you. He is wildly desirous of hearing you play.”
“It is possible. He should have said so. How was I to know that Franz Liszt would send me a yellow-headed girl in trousers?”