"Oh, in such matters a young girl is out of the question," Harry sharply interrupts.
There is an oppressive silence. Lato shivers.
"You are cold," Harry says, with marked gentleness; "come into the house."
"No, no; stay here!"
Through the silence come the strains of a waltz of Arditi's "La notte gia stendi suo manto stellato," and the faint rustle of the dancers' feet.
"How is your cousin?" Lato asks, after a while.
"I do not know. I have not spoken with her since she left Komaritz," Harry replies, evasively.
"And have you not seen her?" asks Lato.
"Yes, once; I looked over the garden-wall as I rode by. She looks pale and thin, poor child."
Lato is mute. Harry goes on: