From the garden-room floated Gabrielle's sweet, childlike voice, "Io so una giardiniera," she sang. Oswald had finished his upholstering, and was bending over the piano. He combined a sincere enjoyment of music with a deplorable preference for sentimental popular ballads.
The creaking of wheels intruded upon the dreamy monotony of the hour. Truyn leaned forward and started to his feet. "Ah, old Swoboda, the doctor who attended Ella with the measles," he exclaimed joyfully, recognising Dr. Swoboda, in his comical little vehicle drawn by a white horse spotted with brown. "Is he still alive? I must call him in. Holla! Doctor, how are you?"
The doctor started, looked round, and took off his hat with a smile of delight, "your servant, Count Truyn."
"Come in and have a chat," said Truyn, "it was hardly fair not to have been to see us before."
"But, my dear Count, how could I suppose ..."
A few minutes later, the old doctor was seated opposite to Truyn, underneath the marquee, imparting to the Count exact information as to the weal and woe of a multitude of people belonging to the town, and to the country round, whom the proprietor of Rautschin remembered with wonderful distinctness.
Some had died, one or two were insane--a couple were bankrupt.
"Infernal swindling speculations! is my dear old Rautschin beginning to be carried away by them?" said Truyn, "certain epidemics cannot be arrested. Sad--very sad! And now the phylloxera has taken up its abode in Schneeburg."
"Is there much illness about here?" Zinka asked the doctor, in hopes perhaps of staving off a conservative outburst from her husband.
"None of any consequence. My business is at a low ebb, your Excellency."