"And may I ask if you kept your word, Countess?" asks Count Treurenberg, laughing.
"Yes," Erika replies, curtly.
"Charming!" exclaims Count Treurenberg. "And, between ourselves, I would not have believed it of you, Countess! You were a lucky fellow, Lozoncyi."
Erika is visibly embarrassed, but Lozoncyi steps a little nearer to her, and says, with a very kindly smile, "What a gloomy face! Ah, Countess, can you regret the alms bestowed upon a poor lad by an infant nine years old? If you only knew how often the memory of your childish kindness has strengthened and encouraged me, you would not grudge it."
The matter could not have been adjusted with more amiable tact, and Erika begins to laugh, and confesses that she has been foolish,--a fact which her grandmother confirms gaily. The old lady is delighted with the little story: the part played therein by Strachinsky gives it an additional relish. She is charmed with Lozoncyi.
They leave the damp, musty library, and go out into the cloisters that encircle the garden of the monastery. The scent of roses is in the air, and from the monastery kitchen comes the odour of freshly-roasted coffee. Count Treurenberg is glad of the opportunity to cover his bald head with his English gray felt hat, and as he does so anathematizes the Western idea of courtesy which makes it necessary for a gentleman to catch cold in his head so frequently. He walks in front with the old Countess, and Erika and Lozoncyi follow. The two old people talk incessantly; the younger couple scarcely speak.
Lozoncyi is the first to break the silence. "Strange, that chance should have brought us together again," he says.
She clears her throat and seems about to speak, but is mute.
"You were saying, Countess----?" he asks, smiling.
"I said nothing."