"Yes, truly," says he, holding the shawl to his face; "that is a harem perfume which some one brought her from Constantinople. But what is the matter, Snowdrop?"
"I feel the storm approach," she murmurs, tonelessly. "Let us go to the house."
They go. The swallows fly yet lower, the clouds hang heavier, almost touch the black tree-tops. There is a whistling and hissing in the leaves.
Elsa hears nothing. With dragging, and yet overhasty, steps she walks near Sempaly. "Who knows whether he would even say 'poor Garzin' if I should die?" she thinks to herself.
The lawn-tennis party, which Pistasch and the Klette have now also joined, growing more and more animated, has lasted until the first drops of rain have driven them away.
Somewhat dishevelled and heated, her morbid self-consciousness healed by the admiration which Pistasch, escaped from his cousin's control, had unreservedly displayed for her, Linda enters the drawing-room where the Countess, Felix, Elsa and Scirocco are assembled.
"How did your lawn-tennis come on?" asks Scirocco, as the Countess, vexed at Linda's triumphant look, does not condescend to address her.
"Oh, excellently," cries Linda. "Count Kamenz and my brother-in-law display the greatest talent for this noble occupation."
"To whom do you give the palm?" cries Kamenz.
"I cannot decide that to-day," says she with as much gravity as if she were deciding upon the fortieth fauteuil of the Paris Academy. "One judges talent not from what it first offers, but according to its subsequent development."