Her grandmother entered, ready to go out, an opera-glass in her hand, and asked her, "Erika, will you not come with me to the exhibition in the Circolo artistico? There is a picture there of which all Venice is talking,--a wonder of a picture, they say."
"Whom is it by?"
"By Lozoncyi."
"Ah!" Erika turned away from her grandmother, and gazed out of the window into the broad Southern sunlight, until black specks danced before her eyes.
"What an indignant exclamation!" her grandmother said, with a laugh. "Your 'Ah!' sounded as if Lozoncyi were your mortal enemy. Perhaps you resent his being in Bayreuth with--with a companion. You must not be so strict with an artist: the society which these gentlemen, in pursuance of their calling, are obliged to frequent, is apt to blunt their sensibilities in that direction. Besides, he was just from Paris: such things are usual there. We are rather more strict in our notions. It is all the same. For my part, it is a matter of entire indifference to me how this Herr Lozoncyi arranges his domestic affairs. Years ago I prophesied a brilliant future for him, when our best Berlin critics condemned his efforts as unripe fruit. Of course I feel flattered at having been right. The vanity of being in the right is the last to die in the human breast. At all events, he seems to have painted a really great picture, and I thought---- But if you do not want to come with me, you prejudiced young lady, I will go alone. Adieu, my child." She stroked the cheek of the young girl, who had now turned away from the window, and went towards the door.
But before she had reached it, Erika called after her: "But, grandmother, do not be in such haste. I--I should like to take a little walk with you, and I do not care where we go."
"Very well: I will wait."
Shortly afterwards grandmother and grand-daughter walked across the little square behind the hotel, decorated in honour of the spring with orange-trees and laurels in tubs, towards the Piazza San Stefano. The day was lovely, and the streets were filled with people. Erika wore a dark-green cloth walking-suit, that became her well. Although she gave but little thought to her dress, with her good taste was instinctive: she always looked like a picture, and to-day like an uncommonly handsome picture.
"Everybody turns to look at you," her grandmother whispered to her; "and I must confess that it is worth the trouble."
This sounded like old times. The compliment had no effect upon Erika, but the tenderness that prompted it did the girl good. She smiled affectionately, but shook her forefinger at the old lady.