"A charming spot!" he begins. "The fragrance of these orange-blossoms reminds me of Nice. You have been at Nice, Baroness?"
"I have been everywhere, from Madrid to Constantinople," Stella sighs; "and I wish I were at home. My head aches so!"--passing her hand wearily across her brow.
"Shall I get you an ice, or a glass of lemonade?" he asks, good-naturedly.
"I should be much obliged to you," Stella replies.
"Hm! it does not look as if she were very anxious for a tête-à-tête with me," he thinks, as he leaves her.
He has gone: she is alone among the fragrant flowers and the larged-leaved plants. Softened, but distinctly audible, the sound of hopping and gliding feet reaches her ears, while, now sadly caressing and anon merrily careless, the strains of a Strauss waltz float on the air. For a while she sits quite wearily, with half-closed eyes, thinking of nothing save "I hope the attaché will stay away a long time!" Mingling softly and tenderly with the music she hears the dreamy murmur of a miniature fountain. Why is she suddenly reminded of the melancholy rush of the Save, of the little canoe by the edge of the black water? Suddenly she hears voices in her vicinity, and, raising her eyes to a tall, broad mirror opposite, she beholds, framed in by the gold-embroidered hangings of a heavy portière, a striking picture,--the Princess Oblonsky and Edgar. They are in a little boudoir separated from the conservatory by an open door. Without stirring, Stella watches the pair in the treacherous mirror. Edgar sits in a low arm-chair, his elbow on his knee, his head propped on his hand, and the Princess is opposite him. How wonderfully beautiful she is!--beautiful although she is just brushing away a tear.
"It always makes me so ugly to cry!" Stella thinks, not without bitterness.
The Princess's gloves and fan lie beside her; her arms are bare. With an expression of intense melancholy, an expression not only apparent in her face and in the listless droop of her arms, but also seeming to be shared by every fold of her dress, she leans back among the soft-hued, rose-coloured and gray satin cushions of a small lounge.
"Strange, that we should have met at last!--at last!" she sighs. Stella cannot distinguish his reply, but she distinctly hears the Princess say, "Do you remember that waltz? How often its notes have floated towards us upon the breath of the roses in the long afternoons at Baden! How long a time has passed since then! How long----"
A black mist rises before Stella's eyes. She puts up her hands to her ears, and, thrilling from head to foot, springs up and hurries away,--anywhere, anywhere,--only away from this spot,--far away!