He went to the door and opened it on dark stairs; without looking back he descended.
The first landing blazed with the light of a thousand candles; a magnificent doorway with portals flung wide invited him into a gorgeous ballroom, where splendidly dressed people moved to and fro to the melody of violin and harp.
Philip Wharton entered; in a little alcove to his right he found the woman waiting for him.
The diamonds sparkled red and blue as if her flesh was on fire; her powdered locks were piled high, and the billows of her violet dress spread wide on the settee where she sat.
She laughed.
“Faithful!” she cried. “Faithful! And you are leaving Vienna to-morrow!”
He seated himself on the small portion of the brocade her spreading skirts had left uncovered.
His nostrils distended to drink in the perfumed air, and his eyes sparkled; his whole spirit became animated in the congenial atmosphere of a court–a luxurious court.
“And I must really die and leave all this,” he complained.
He looked at the lady and smiled; but her face was very grave.