Not a feature in Ivan's face moved. He listened silently to these wonderful tales. Angela at last grew weary of all this boasting and glorification of the Austrians over the degraded Hungarians; she turned to Ivan, and put to him a direct question:
"Is this all true?"
Ivan shrugged his shoulders. "What can I, a poor miner who lives underground, know of what goes on on the surface of the great earth?"
Angela need not have anxiety about him. He is a philosopher, and there is no fear he will go too near the fire.
After supper the company separated; Count Stefan, with Countess Theudelinde and some other ladies, went into the drawing-room. The moon shone through the bow-windows. The countess played the piano, and Angela came and spoke to Ivan.
"Here is your pin," she said. "You know the old superstition—a present of sharp-pointed instruments dissolves friendship, and those who wish to be friends never give them?"
"But," answered Ivan, smiling, "the superstition provides an antidote which breaks the spell. Both friends must laugh over the present."
"Ah, that is why you laughed when I spoke of the iron goads. There, take back your pin, and let us laugh for superstition's sake!"
And they laughed together, because it was a superstition so to do. Then Angela went out on the balcony, and took counsel from the soft air of the summer's evening; she leaned over the balustrade, waiting for Count Edmund, who had promised to bring her the first news of how the plot had worked.
The gentlemen stayed late in the smoking-room; the night is their time for enjoying themselves, so Angela had a long vigil. The moon had long disappeared behind the high tops of the poplar-trees before Angela heard Edmund's step coming through the drawing-room to the bow-window. The ladies were still playing the piano; they could talk unreservedly.