"Selina, of course,--the only really pretty woman in the house," said Count Hans. "Her beauty has expanded wonderfully in the last few days. It is always becoming to pretty women to be in love."
"In love?" Lato repeated, his throat contracted, his tongue dry.
The old Count laughed. "Ah, you're a sly fellow, Lato."
Lato was mute.
His father continued: "They are all jealous of you, Lato. Did you not see what happened this evening in the conservatory, just after dinner? Pistasch Kamenz proposed to her, and she refused him. He told me of it himself, and made light of it; but he was hard hit. I can quite understand it. She is an exceedingly beautiful woman; she does not carry herself well, 'tis true,--with women of her class the physical training is sure to be neglected,--but all that can be changed."
Lato was still mute. So, then, Pistasch Kamenz had tried that of which he, Lato, had been ashamed, and had failed. He should not fail.
The old Count waited a moment, and then went on: "I am sorry for Kamenz; the match would have been an excellent one for him; he would have settled down."
"Settled down--upon his wife's money!" Lato muttered, without looking at his father.
"Is there anything new in that?" exclaimed the Count, with unruffled composure. "A man of honour can take nothing from a woman whom he loves, but everything from his wife. 'Tis an old rule, and it is comical,"--Count Hans laughed softly,--"how here in Austria we require that a rich wife should always belong to the same sphere with her husband; he is forgiven for a mésalliance only if he marries a beggar. It is pure folly! We shall never amount to anything unless we toss aside the entire burden of prejudice which we drag about with us. It weighs us down; we cannot keep step with the rest; how can a man run sheathed in mail? With the exception of a few magnates among us who are able to enjoy their prestige, we are wretchedly off. We spend our lives sacrificing ourselves for a position which we cannot maintain respectably; we pamper a chimera to be devoured by it in the end. Most of all do I admire the bourgeoisie, whom we impress, and whose servility keeps bright the nimbus about our heads. Bah! we can do nothing more with the old folly! We must mingle in the fresh life of the present."
"Yes," Lato muttered again, but more indistinctly than at first, "we ought to work, to achieve somewhat."