"Ah, the Zriny: has she quartered herself upon you?" the major asked, with something of a drawl.
"I escorted her here from Vienna. Aunt Rosamunda deputed me to inform you of our relative's arrival, and to beg you to come immediately to the drawing-room."
"H'm, h'm!--I'll go, I'll go," murmured the major, and he left the room apparently not very well pleased. In the corridor he suddenly turned to his nephew, who was following at his heels. "Have you seen Zdena yet?" he asked, with a merry twinkle of his eye.
"N--o."
"Well, go find her."
"Where shall I look for her?"
"In the garden, in the honeysuckle arbour. She is posing for her elderly adorer that he may paint her as Zephyr, or Flora, or something of the kind."
"Her elderly adorer? Who is he?" Harry asked, with a frown, his voice sounding hard and sharp.
"A cousin of my wife's, Baron Wenkendorf is his name, an enormously rich old bachelor, and head over ears in love with our girl. He calls himself a painter, in spite of his wealth, and he has induced the child to stand for some picture for him. He makes love to her, I suppose, while she poses."
"And she--what has she to say to his homage?" asked Harry, feeling as if some one were choking him.