"Excuse me, my dear Roderich, but I cannot find my thimble. Zdena, be so kind as to go and get me my thimble."
While Zdena has gone to look for it, Frau von Leskjewitsch turns to her cousin, who is rather irritated by this interruption, and exclaims, "Very interesting!--oh, extremely interesting! Do you not think so?" turning for confirmation of her opinion to the other listeners. But the other listeners do not respond. Countess Zriny, who, with her hands as usual encased in Swedish gloves, is knitting with thick, wooden needles something brown for the poor, only drops her double chin majestically upon her breast, and Harry--usually quite unsurpassable in the well-bred art of being bored with elegance and decorum--is tugging angrily at his moustache.
Zdena shortly returns with the missing thimble. The reading begins afresh, and goes quite smoothly for a time; Wenkendorf is satisfied with his audience.
"Oh, wonderful and sacred one!" he is reading, with profound emotion.
Everyone is listening eagerly. Hark! A scratching noise, growing louder each minute, and finally ending in a pounding at the summer-house door, arouses the little company from its rapt attention. A smile lights up Frau Rosamunda's serene features:
"It is Morl. Let him in, Harry." Morl, the hostess's black poodle, is admitted, goes round the circle, laying his paw confidingly upon the knee of each member of it in turn, is petted and caressed by his mistress, and finally, after he has vainly tried to oust the Countess Zriny from the corner of the sofa which he considers his own special property, establishes himself, with a low growl, in the other corner of that piece of furniture.
Wenkendorf, meanwhile, drums the march from 'Tannhäuser' softly on the cover of his thick book and frowns disapprovingly. Harry observes his annoyance with satisfaction, watching him the while attentively, and reflecting on the excellent match in view of which Zdena has forgotten her fleeting attachment for the playmate of her childhood.
"A contemptible creature!" he says to himself: "any man is good enough to afford her amusement. Who would have thought it? Fool that I was! I'm well out of it,--yes, really well out of it."
And whilst he thus seriously attempts to persuade himself that, under the circumstances, nothing could be more advantageous for him than this severance of all ties with his beautiful, fickle cousin, his heart burns like fire in his breast. He has never before felt anything like this torture. His glance wanders across to where Zdena sits sewing, with bent head and feverish intentness, upon a piece of English embroidery.
The reading is interrupted again,--this time by Krupitschka, who wants more napkins for afternoon tea. Wenkendorf has to be assured with great emphasis that they all think the text of 'Parzifal' extremely interesting before he can be induced to open the book again. Suddenly the gravel outside crunches beneath approaching footsteps. The major's voice is heard, speaking in courteous tones, and then another, strange voice, deep and guttural. The summer-house door is opened.