“He has had a long and conspicuous career,” Karl observed. “It is sad, but we must all come to it. I hope he will be able to see me.”
“Hedwig!” said her mother, sharply, “your tea is getting cold.”
Hedwig turned toward the room. Listlessness gave her an added dignity, a new charm. Karl’s eyes flamed as he watched her. He was a connoisseur in women; he had known many who were perhaps more regularly beautiful, but none, he felt, so lovely. Her freshness and youth made Olga, beautifully dressed, superbly easy, look sophisticated and a trifle hard. Even her coldness appealed to him. He had a feeling that the coldness was only a young girl’s armor, that under it was a deeply passionate woman. The thought of seeing her come to deep, vibrant life in his arms thrilled him.
When he carried her tea to her, he bent over her. “Please!” he said. “Try to like me. I—”
“I’m sorry,” Hedwig said quickly. “Mother has forgotten the lemon.”
Karl smiled and, shrugging his shoulders, fetched the lemon. “Right, now?” he inquired. “And aren’t we going to have a talk together?”
“If you wish it, I dare say we shall.”
“Majesty,” said Hilda, frowning into her teacup. “I see a marriage for you.” She ignored her mother’s scowl, and tilted her cup to examine it.
“A marriage!” Karl joined her, and peered with mock anxiety at the tea-grounds. “Strange that my fate should be confined in so small a compass! A happy marriage? Which am I?”
“The long yellow leaf. Yes, it looks happy. But you may be rather shocked when I tell you.”