"Well?--go on."
"Well, Nina, or Olga--what is your protégeé's name?" He snaps his fingers impatiently.
"Olga! Well, what of her?"
"Nothing, nothing, only she was sitting at the piano strumming away at something, and Lato was listening as devoutly as if she----"
But Selina has risen hastily and is walking towards the door into the garden with short impatient steps, as if in need of the fresh air. Her face is flushed, and she plucks nervously at the lace about her throat.
"What have I done? Have I vexed you?" the Pole whines, clasping his hands.
"Oh, no, you have nothing to do with it!" the Countess sharply rejoins. "I cannot understand Lato's want of taste in making so much fuss about that slip of a girl."
"You ought to try to marry her off," sighs the Pole.
"Try I try!" the Countess replies, mockingly. "There is nothing to be done with that obstinate thing."
"Of course it must be difficult; her low extraction, her lack of fortune,----"