And Lato goes to the dining-hall, a magnificent oak-wainscoted room, in which the chandelier, lighted in his honour, represents a round island of light in a sea of black darkness. The soup-tureen is on the sideboard: a servant lifts the cover, and the butler ladles out a plateful of the soup and places it before Lato.
He takes a spoonful discontentedly, then motions to the butler to take the plate away. Olga suddenly appears.
"Have you left any for me?" she asks. "I am fearfully hungry, for I could not eat any dinner."
"From anxiety?" asks Lato.
"Yes," she says, laughing, "from anxiety." And she takes a seat opposite him.
"Oh, you silly girl!" says Treurenberg, watching her with satisfaction as she sips her soup. Lato himself suddenly has an access of appetite.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
A FRIEND'S ADVICE.
Few things in this world are more unpleasant than to be obliged to admit the excellence of a friend's advice when it runs counter to all our most secret and decided inclinations.
Harry Leskjewitsch finds himself thus disagreeably situated the evening after Lato's visit to Komaritz.