"Oh, you foolish fellow!" Harry exclaims, stroking the boy's brown head. "But now be sensible; don't behave like a girl. Do you hear?"
"My nerves are in such a state," sighs Heda.
Harry stamps his foot. "So are mine! I would advise you all to retire, and recover from this turmoil."
Soon afterwards the house is silent. Even Vips has been persuaded to go to bed and sleep off his fright. Harry, however, is awake. After ordering Blasius to bury the dog, and to bring him his revolver, which he now remembers to have left lying beside the animal's body, he seats himself on the flight of steps leading from the dining-room into the garden, leans his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, and dreams. The wind has subsided, and the night seems to him lovely in spite of the misty clouds that veil the sky. The flowers are fragrant,--oh, how fair life is! Suddenly he hears a light step; he rises, goes into the corridor, and finds Zdena putting a letter into the postbag. He approaches her, and their eyes meet. In vain does she attempt to look grave. She smiles, and her smile is mirrored in his eyes.
"To whom was the letter?" he asks, going towards her. Not that there is a spark of jealousy left in his heart for the moment, but he delights to coax her secrets from her, to share in all that concerns her.
"Is it any affair of yours?" she asks, with dignity.
"No, but I should like to know."
"I will not tell you."
"Suppose I guess?"
She shrugs her shoulders.