"Erika, look there!"
The words are spoken by old Countess Lenzdorff in the library of the monastery of San Lazaro, and as she speaks she plucks her grand-daughter's sleeve.
The monastery is the same in which Lord Byron, more than half a century ago, was taught by long-bearded monks; and the Lenzdorffs, taking advantage of the fine weather, had been rowed over to it on the afternoon of the day on which they had visited the exhibition at the Circolo.
The monk who acted as their cicerone had conducted them to the library to show them Lord Byron's signature and his portrait, a small, authentic likeness. In addition he showed them many likenesses of his lordship which were by no means authentic, but which represented him in various costumes and at various periods of his existence, and which it was hoped romantic tourists might be tempted to purchase as souvenirs de Venise.
Two gentlemen are standing laughing and criticising one of these pictures, and it is to these gentlemen that the Countess directs her grand-daughter's attention. One of them is standing with his back turned to the ladies, but his faultlessly-fitting English overcoat, his gray gaiters, his way of balancing himself with legs slightly apart, the distinction and gray-haired worthlessness that characterize him, leave Erika in no doubt as to his identity. It is Count Hans Treurenberg, an old Austrian friend of her grandmother's. The other, whose profile is turned towards the ladies, is a man of middle height, delicately built, well dressed, although his clothes have not the English cachet that distinguishes Count Treurenberg's, and with a frank, attractive bearing and a clear-cut dark face. Taken all in all, he might be supposed to be a man of the world,--some young relative of the Count's,--were it not for his eyes, strange, gleaming eyes, which after a brief glance at the grandmother are riveted upon the grand-daughter. No mere man of the world ever had such eyes. Meanwhile, Count Treurenberg has turned round.
"Ladies, I kiss your hands!" he exclaims. "You too have employed this fine weather in an excursion: you could not do better."
The old Countess was about to reply, when Treurenberg's companion whispered a few words to him.
"Permit me to present Herr von Lozoncyi," said the Count,--whereupon the old Countess, before Lozoncyi had quite finished his formal obeisance, called out, "I am delighted to know you. I belong among your oldest admirers. Do not misunderstand me: I do not, of course, refer to my own age, but to that of my admiration."
"I am immensely flattered, Frau Countess," Lozoncyi replied, in the gentle, agreeable voice of a Viennese of mixed descent and doubtful nationality. "Might I ask when first I had the good fortune to arouse your interest?"
"How long ago is it, Erika?--five or six years?" asked the old lady. "You will know."