Baron Paul turns his tired steeds, and, gaily waving his hand in token of farewell, vanishes beneath the archway.
There they stand, she and he, alone in front of the house. The old walnuts, lifting their stately crests into the blue skies along one side of the court-yard, whisper all sorts of pleasant things to them, but they have no words for each other.
At last Harry asks, taking the black leather travelling-bag from his cousin's hand, "Is this all your luggage?"
"The milkman is to bring a small trunk," she replies, without looking at him.
"We have had your old room made ready for you."
"Ah, my old room,--how delightful!"
They cross the threshold, when Harry suddenly stands still.
"Are you not going to give me your hand?" he asks, in a tone of entreaty, whereupon she extends her hand, and then instantly withdraws it. She seems to herself to be doing wrong. As matters stand, she must not make the smallest advance to him,--no, not the smallest: she has resolved upon that. In fact, she did not expect to see him here, and she must show him that she is quite annoyed by his postponing his departure.
Yap, yap, yap! the rabble of dachshunds, multiplied considerably in the last twelve years, comes tumbling down the steps to leap about Zdena; Harry's faithful hound Hector comes and puts his paws on her shoulder; and, lastly, the ladies come down into the hall,--Heda, the Countess Zriny, Fräulein Laut,--and, surrounding Zdena, carry her off to her room. Here they stay talking with her for a while; then they withdraw, each to follow her own devices.
How glad the girl is to be alone! She is strangely moved, perplexed, and yet unaccountably happy.