"There may be," said her grandmother. "The pity is that one never knows the true from the false until it is past."
Erika said no more.
The air was mild; the scent of roses was wafted across the sluggish water of the lagoon; there was a faint sound of distant music. But an icy chill crept over Erika, and in her heart there was a strange, aching, yearning pain.
CHAPTER XXI.
Three weeks had passed since Minona von Rattenfels had so effectively given vent to her languishing love-plaints.
A striking change was evident in Erika. She was much more cheerful, or, at least, more accessible; she no longer withdrew from the world in morbid misanthropy, but went into society whenever her grandmother requested her to do so. Wherever she went she was fêted and admired. Since her first season in Berlin she had never received so much homage. It seemed to give her pleasure, and, what was still more remarkable, she seemed to exert herself somewhat--a very little--to obtain it.
Wherever she went she met Lozoncyi,--Lozoncyi, who scarcely took his eyes off her, but who made no attempt to approach her in any way that could attract notice. His bearing towards her was not only exemplary, but touching. Always at hand to render her any little service,--to procure her an ice, to relieve her of an empty teacup, to find her missing fan or gloves,--he immediately retired to give place to her other admirers. Among these Prince Helmy Nimbsch was foremost: the entire international society of Venice were daily expecting the announcement of a betrothal, and one afternoon, at a lawn-tennis party at Lady Stairs's, he had given Erika unmistakable proofs of his intentions. She was a little startled, and, while she was endeavouring to lead the conversation with him away from the perilously sentimental tone it had assumed, her eyes accidentally encountered Lozoncyi's.
Shortly afterwards she managed to get rid of the Prince; and as, after a last game of lawn-tennis, she was retiring from the field, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling from the exercise, Lozoncyi came up to her to relieve her of her racket. "You see how right the poor painter was, not to venture to approach his little fairy," he murmured. The words, his tone, aroused her sympathy and compassion, but before she could reply he had vanished. He did not come near her again that afternoon, but she could not help perceiving that his looks sought herself and Prince Nimbsch alternately, at first inquiringly, and afterwards with an expression of relief.
Dinner has been over for some time. The lamps are gleaming red along the Grand Canal, and their broken reflections quiver in long streaks upon the waters of the lagoon. The little drawing-room is but dimly lighted, and Erika is seated at the piano, playing bits of 'Parsifal,' her fingers gliding into the motive of sinful, worldly pleasure.
The old Countess enters, and, after wandering aimlessly about the room for a moment, goes, after her fashion, directly to the point. She pauses beside Erika, and observes, "Prince Nimbsch is courting you. People are talking about it."