An hour has passed since then.
Maschenka is one humiliation richer. The only man who has asked her to dance was her Italian teacher, Signor Supino. Besides, a wealthy leather dealer has offered her his arm for a promenade. Poor Supino she dismissed with a harshness which later pains her, but her strength and resolution did not suffice to shake off the leather merchant. He had met Mascha a single time in Nita's studio, and treats her as if she were his niece.
At length she is rid of him. With convulsive resolution she clings to an old, white-haired American, whom she knows as the father of one of the scholars in the Sylvain studio. His daughter is waltzing in the ball-room, the Countess d'Olbreuse is waltzing. Maschenka sits with Mr. Cornelius Merryfield in the prettiest room, a winter garden with artificial moonlight and rocks; sits there weary, sad, and lets the old man explain to her the narrow influence of the North American Quakers.
Suddenly she hears a voice near her say: "At last! I have sought you already for half an hour!" It is Bärenburg.
All the blood in her body rushes to her heart. She has but the one thought, not to let him notice how much she cares for him, to be as indifferent to him as possible.
"Ah, really! Then Miss Anthropos has already left the ball half an hour ago?" says she, slowly, raising her brows, whereupon, turning to Mr. Merryfield, she asks: "Did you know President Lincoln?"
"Have the kindness to introduce me," interrupts Bärenburg, irritably.
"Count Bärenburg--Mr. Merryfield," says she, shortly; and still turned toward Mr. Merryfield, she continues: "I heard once that when an Englishman, in conversation with Lincoln, let fall a French phrase, the latter remarked that he did not understand Greek. Do you think that possible?"
"It may be," says Mr. Merryfield, with an uneasy glance at the door. "I do not understand what keeps my daughter so long; she promised to only dance one waltz. Permit me to go and look after her a little."