She had expected to go to the lodge, but at nine o’clock that night Karl came to her, knocking at the door of her room and entering without waiting for permission.
The room was small and cozy with firelight. Her scarlet cloak, flung over a chair, made a dash of brilliant color. Two lighted candles on a high carved chest, and between them a plaster figure of the Mother and Child, a built-in bed with white curtains—that was the room.
Before the open fire Olga Loschek sat in her low chair. She wore still her dark traveling dress; and a veil, ready to be donned at the summons of a message from Karl, trailed across her knee. In the firelight she looked very young—young and weary. Karl, who had come hardened to a scene, found her appealing, almost pathetic.
She rose at his entrance and, after a moment of surprise, smiled faintly. But she said nothing, nor did Karl, until he had lifted one of her cold hands and brushed it with his lips.
“Well!” he said. “And again, Olga!”
“Once again.” She looked up at him. Yes, he was changed. The old Karl would have taken her in his arms. This new Karl was urbane, smiling, uneasy.
He said nothing. He was apparently waiting for her to make the first move. But she did not help him. She sat down and he drew a small chair to the fire.
“There is nothing wrong, is there?” he said. “Your note alarmed me. Not the note, but your coming here.”
“Nothing—and everything.” She felt suddenly very tired. Her very voice was weary. “I sent you a letter asking you to come to the castle. There were things to discuss, and I did not care to take this risk of coming here.”
“I received no letter.”