"Where have you seen each other before?" the Countess asked, curiously.
"On the stairs, on the evening of my arrival," Erika explained. "Evidently you do not recall it, Herr von Sydow: I ought not to have confessed how perfectly I remember."
"Oh, I remember it very well," said Sydow, and then he paused suddenly with a faint smile, a smile peculiarly his own, and behind which some sensitive souls suspected a degree of malice, but which actually concealed only a certain agitation and embarrassment, a momentary non-comprehension of the situation. He was not very clever, except in moments of great danger, when he developed unusual presence of mind.
"After all, 'tis no wonder that you made more impression upon me than I did upon you," Erika went on, easily and simply. "In the first place, you were the first Prussian officer I had ever met; I had never seen anything in Austria so tall and broad: your epaulettes inspired me with a degree of awe. And then you bowed so respectfully. You can't imagine how much good it did me. I was half dead with terror: you looked as if you pitied me."
"I did pity you, Countess," he confessed, frankly. The tone of her voice, which had first won over her grandmother, was sweet in his ears. Moreover, she seemed very much of a child, now that she was talking. The impression of self-possession which she had at first given him was quite obliterated.
"You knew that my grandmother was not glad to have me?" she asked.
"Yes, I told him so, and he scolded me for it," Countess Lenzdorff declared, with a nod.
"But, my dear Countess!" Sydow remonstrated.
"Oh, I always speak the truth," the Countess exclaimed,--"always, that is, if possible, and sometimes even oftener: it is the only virtue upon which I pride myself. And you were right, Goswyn. But do you know how you look now? As if you were ashamed of your pity. Aha! I have hit the nail upon the head, and a very sensitive nail, too. It is human nature. There is one extravagance which even the most magnanimous never forgive themselves,--wasted compassion. In fact, you must perceive that the child has no need of the article."
Goswyn was silent. If at first the Countess had hit the nail upon the head, he was by no means convinced of the truth of her last remark. Something in the old Countess's manner to her grand-daughter went against the grain with him: once while she was talking to him, and Erika, sitting beside her, nestled close to her with the innocent grace of a young creature to whom a little tenderness is as necessary as is sunshine to the opening flower, the grandmother suddenly, with a significant glance at Sydow, put her finger beneath the girl's chin and turned her face so that he might observe the particularly lovely outline of her cheek.