"And his efforts have assuredly been crowned with success," Erika replied, contemptuously. Then, with a shade more of scorn in her voice, she asked, "Is there always as much--as much talk of love here?"
"It is frequently discussed," he replied. "And why not? It is the most important thing in the world." Then, with his admiring artist-stare, he added, in a lower tone, "As you will discover for yourself."
She frowned, turned away, and re-entered the room.
He stayed outside, suddenly conscious of his want of tact, but inclined to lay the fault of it at her door. "'Tis a pity she is so whimsical a creature," he muttered between his teeth; "and so gloriously beautiful; a great pity!" Nevertheless he was vexed with himself, and was firmly resolved, if chance ever gave him another interview with her, to make better use of his opportunity.
Shortly afterwards Countess Lenzdorff, with Erika and Constance Mühlberg, took her leave. She was in a very good humour, and exchanged all sorts of witticisms with Constance with regard to their evening.
"And how did you enjoy yourself?" she asked Erika, when, after leaving Constance at home, the two were alone in the gondola on their way to the 'Britannia.'
"I?" asked Erika, with a contemptuous depression of the corners of her mouth. "How could I enjoy myself in an assemblage where there was nothing talked of but love?"
Her grandmother laughed heartily: "Yes, it was rather a silly way to pass the time, I confess. I cannot conceive why they waste so many words upon what is perfectly plain to any one with eyes. They grope about, and no one explains in the least the nature of love." She threw back her head, and, without for an instant losing the slightly mocking smile which was so characteristic of her beautiful old face, she said, "Love is an irritation of the fancy, produced by certain natural conditions, which expresses itself, so long as it lasts, in the exclusive glorification of one single individual, and robs the human being who is its victim of all power of discernment. All things considered, those people are very lucky who, when the torch of passion is extinguished, can find anything save humiliation in the memory of their love."
The old Countess was privately very proud of her definition, and looked round at Erika with an air of self-satisfaction at having clothed what was so self-evident, so cheerful a view, in such uncommonly appropriate words. But Erika's face had assumed a dark, pained expression. Her grandmother's words had aroused in her the old anguish,--anguish for her mother. It was not to be denied that in some cases her grandmother's view was the true one. Was it true always? No! Something in the girl's nature rebelled against such a thought. No! a thousand times no!
"But the love of which you speak, grandmother, is only sham love," she said, in a husky, trembling voice. "There is surely another kind,--a genuine, sacred, ennobling love!"