But by the time she had reached this point in her eulogy of Goswyn, Erika was standing with her hand on the latch of the door, stammering, "Yes, yes, grandmother; but I--I have a letter to write."
She liked to avoid any discussion of Goswyn: a sensation of unrest, always the same, never developing into any distinct desire, was sure to assail her heart at the mention of his name.
The girls who had made their débuts with her were now almost all married. Very commonplace girls, whom she had treated with condescending kindness, married her own former admirers: she was no longer wooed. At first she laughed at the airs of superiority which the young wives took on in her society; but the second winter she was annoyed by them. Meanwhile, a fresh bevy of beauties made their appearance, and many a girl was admired and fêted, simply because she had not been seen as often as the Countess Erika.
In the depths of her heart, she had no desire whatever to marry. In her thoughts marriage was simply a clumsy, inconvenient requirement of our social organization, compliance with which she would postpone as long as possible. Against 'all for love' her inmost being rebelled, and yet her lack of suitors vexed her.
Then, when the first social feminine authorities of Berlin began to shake their heads over her as a 'critical case,' she suddenly startled society by the announcement of her betrothal to a very wealthy English peer, Percy, Earl of Langley.
She became acquainted with him at Carlsbad, whither her grandmother had gone for the waters. For several days she noticed that an elderly, distinguished-looking man followed her with his eyes whenever she appeared. At last, one morning he approached the old Countess, and with a smile asked whether she had really forgotten him or whether it was her deliberate intention persistently to cut him.
She offered him her hand courteously, and replied, "Lord Langley, on the Continent a gentleman is supposed to speak first to a lady. Moreover, if I had been willing to comply with your national custom, I should hardly have known whether it were well to present myself to you."
He laughed, with half-closed eyes, and rejoined that her remark could bear reference only to a period of his life long since past; now he was an old man, etc. "I have sown my wild oats," he declared, adding, "I've taken a long time to sow them, haven't I? But it's all over now!" Whereupon he requested an introduction to the Countess's companion.
From that time he devoted himself to the two ladies. Erika was flattered by his respectful admiration, and liked to talk with him. In fact, she had never conversed with so much pleasure with any other man. He had formerly belonged to the diplomatic corps, and had known personally all the people mentioned by Lord Malmesbury in his memoirs,--in short, everybody who during the past forty years had been either famous or notorious, from the Emperor Nicholas, for whom he had an enthusiasm, to Cora Pearl, concerning whom he whispered anecdotes in the old Countess's ear, and whose career he declared, with a shrug, was a riddle to him.
He was the keenest observer and cleverest talker imaginable, distinguished in appearance, always well dressed, a perfect type of the Englishman who, casting aside British cant, leads a gay life on the Continent, without faith, without any moral ideal, saturated through and through with a refined, cynical, witty Epicureanism, gently suppressed when in the society of ladies, although from indolence he did not entirely disguise it.