Such a remark would usually have called forth from Lato a sharp rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as it were.
"She was much agitated," he murmurs. "I had some trouble in soothing her. She--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one."
"Well, you certainly do your best to improve it," Fainacky says, hypocritically.
"And you to make it impossible!" Lato exclaims, angrily.
"Did the fair Olga complain of me, then?" drawls the other.
"There was no need that she should," Treurenberg goes on to say. "Do you suppose that I need anything more than eyes in my head to see how you follow her about and stare at her?"
Fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly.
"Well, yes, I confess, I have paid her some attention; she pleases me. Yes, yes, I do not deny my sensibility to female charms. I never played the saint!"
"Indeed! At least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify your importunity," Treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the simpering specimen of humanity before him. "You have offered her your hand."
Scarcely have the words left his lips when Treurenberg is conscious that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man.