"Oh, I have other plans for ourselves, Lina," Treurenberg says, hastily.
"Ah, I begin to understand," Frau von Harfink observes: "we are to be got out of the way, Olga, you and I." And she smiles after a bitter-sweet fashion.
"But, Baroness!" Lato exclaims.
"You entirely misunderstand him, Baroness," Fainacky interposes: "he was only anxious for Fräulein Olga's health; and with reason: her want of appetite is alarming." Again he succeeds in attracting every one's attention to the girl, who is vainly endeavouring to swallow her breakfast.
"I cannot imagine what ails you," Paula exclaims, in all the pride of her position as a betrothed maiden. "If I knew of any object for your preference, I should say you were in love."
"Such suppositions are not permitted to the masculine intelligence," the Pole observes, twirling his moustache and smiling significantly, his long, pointed nose drooping most disagreeably over his upper lip.
Olga trembles from head to foot; for his life Lato cannot help trying to relieve the poor child's embarrassment.
"Nonsense!" he exclaims; "she is only a little exhausted by the heat, and rather nervous, that is all! But you must really try to eat something;" and he hands her a plate. Her hand trembles so as she takes it that she nearly lets it fall.
Frau von Harfink frowns, but says nothing, for at the moment a servant enters with a letter for Treurenberg. The man who brought it is waiting for an answer. Lato hastily opens the missive, which is addressed in a sprawling, boyish hand, and, upon reading it, changes colour and hastily leaves the room.
"From whom can it be?" Selina soliloquizes, aloud.