And Lozoncyi asked, "Will you take your portmanteau with you, or shall I send it to you?"
Erika went into the next room. Hurriedly, impatiently, she took off the white gown and put on her street dress. "Stuff everything into the portmanteau," she ordered Lucrezia, slipping a gold coin into the servant's hand.
She was in a strange mood: she felt her heart throb up in her throat. "Shall I have one moment in which to speak to him alone?" she asked herself.
"Ready? You have been quick," her grandmother said when she re-entered the studio. "Have you summoned our gondola, Lozoncyi?"
"Yes, Countess. I wonder it is not here. Meanwhile, I must cut the roses in my garden for you. I cannot tell for whom they will bloom when you come no longer."
He went out into the garden. For one moment Erika hesitated; then she followed him. The skies were one uniform gray; every branch and blossom drooped wearily. The roses which Lozoncyi tried to cut for Erika fell to pieces beneath his touch, strewing the earth with pink and white petals.
Lozoncyi did not look around, but cut unmercifully, with a large pair of garden scissors. Before he knew it, Erika stood beside him. "I may be overbold," she half whispered, lightly touching his arm, "but I cannot help feeling that I have a right to know your troubles. Is anything distressing you?"
He looked at her and tried to smile. "To say farewell distresses me, Countess, as you must be aware."
She was overpowered by timidity, but her compassion gave her courage. She collected herself: they must understand each other. "If to say farewell really distresses you, I--I cannot see why it should be said," she whispered. The tears stood in her eyes, and he----? He was ashy pale, and the roses dropped from his hands.
At this moment the bell rang loudly, and a woman's voice asked, in French with a strong Prussian accent, "Does the artist, Paul Lozoncyi, live here?"