"I shall say nothing more," Treurenberg exclaimed, provoked. "I have had enough of this: at the most interesting part of my story you turn and listen to what Lozoncyi is saying to your grand-daughter. The fact is that when Lozoncyi is present no one else can claim a lady's attention." The words were spoken half in jest, half in irritation.
"Count Treurenberg is skilled in rendering me obnoxious in society," Lozoncyi murmurs.
"Oh, I never pay any attention to him," the old Countess assures him. "I should like to know what you did after you learned that Erika had----"
"Had become a grand lady?" Lozoncyi interrupts her. "Oh, I packed up my belongings and went to Rome."
"And then?"
"There I had an attack of Roman fever," he says, slowly, and his face grows dark. He looks around for Erika, but she is no longer at his side: she has lingered behind, and has fallen into conversation with a tall, dignified monk. She now calls out to the rest, "Has no one any desire to see the tree beneath which Lord Byron used to write poems?"
They all follow her as the monk leads the way to the very shore of the island and there with pride points to a table beneath a tree, where he assures them Lord Byron used often to sit and write.
His hospitality culminates at last in regaling his guests with fragrant black coffee, after which he leaves them.
They sit and sip their coffee under the famous tree. Lozoncyi expresses a modest doubt as to the identity of the table. Count Treurenberg relates an anecdote, at which Erika frowns, and gazes up into the blue sky showing here and there among the branches of the old tree.
Suddenly an affected voice is heard to say, "Enfin le voilà."