Giraldi had taken out of the pocket of his dress coat a dainty portfolio, and out of this a paper, which he unfolded.—
"If anybody should come, it is a letter from Enrico Braga, the sculptor, in Milan—thus writes literally as follows:
"One thing more, beloved artist, at which Lesto would bark himself to death with delight if he could understand it, and you will be as delighted as a child, which you are: My Else loves your Reinhold with all her heart and soul, and that means something, for one who knows, as I do, that she is all heart, and has the most heavenly soul in the world. I have not the permission, and least of all the commission, to tell you this; but we must no longer play hide and seek with each other, you know; and must also encourage our poor friends, which can be best done by telling them hourly that he, or in your case, she, loves you! I have at least found it successful with Else. Oh, beloved artist! we ought really to be ashamed to be as happy as we are, when we remember how unhappy our friends are, and simply because of these abominable circumstances. If I knew the one who invented these conditions, I should like to tell him a thing or two, you bet."
"That is indeed wonderfully interesting, and will interest the Count immensely!"
"No doubt," said Giraldi, putting the sheet back in his portfolio.—"By the way, what a noble soul you are, indeed, not to ask from whom I got the letter! But I think we will not make it known till we are sure of one thing."
"Of what?"
Giraldi leaned over to Carla and looked straight into her eyes.—
"That you would not finally prefer to make Count Axel von Golm happy by offering your hand to him instead of to Ottomar von Werben."
"You are horrible, Signor Giraldi, do you know it?" said Carla, striking Giraldi's hands with her handkerchief.