“The question is absurd. There was no harm in what we were doing. It amused Otto. He has few enough pleasures. Thanks to all of us, he is very lonely.”
“And since when have you assumed the responsibility for his upbringing?”
“I remember my own dreary childhood,” said Hedwig stiffly.
The Archduchess turned on her furiously. “More and more,” she said, “as you grow up, Hedwig, you remind me of your unfortunate father. You have the same lack of dignity, the same”—she glanced at Nikky—“the same common tastes, the same habit of choosing strange society, of forgetting your rank.”
Hedwig was scarlet, but Nikky had gone pale. As for the Archduchesss, her cameos were rising and falling stormily. With hands that shook; Hedwig picked up her jacket and hat. Then she moved toward the door.
“Perhaps you are right, mother,” she said, “but I hope I shall never have the bad taste to speak ill of the dead.” Then she went out.
The scene between the Archduchess and Nikky began in a storm and ended in a sort of hopeless quiet. Miss Braithwaite had withdrawn to her sitting-room, but even there she could hear the voice of Annunciata, rasping and angry.
It was very clear to Nikky from the beginning that the Archduchess’s wrath was not for that afternoon alone. And in his guilty young mind rose various memories, all infinitely dear, all infinitely, incredibly reckless—other frolics around the tea-table, rides in the park, lessons in the riding-school. Very soon he was confessing them all, in reply to sharp questions. When the tablet of his sins was finally uncovered, the Archduchess was less angry and a great deal more anxious. Hedwig free was a problem. Hedwig in love with this dashing boy was a greater one.
“Of one thing I must assure Your Highness,” said Nikky. “These—these meetings have been of my seeking.”
“The Princess requires no defense, Captain Larisch.”