"My dear count!" cried Veronica, holding out her thin hand in its white net glove. "I am glad you still remember us. You have been traveling about the world so much without giving us any news of you that we supposed ourselves entirely forgotten."
"I do not deserve this reproach, my dear Fräulein," said Heinrich, apologetically, for in Veronica's presence he was again Heinrich. "I could not suspect that I might venture to give you written news of me; how and upon what pretext could I have done so?"
"My dear count," said Veronica, with her simple frankness, "that is not truthfully and sincerely spoken; for our great interest in you could not have escaped your notice. You would have needed no other pretext for sending a letter than the consciousness that by doing so you would give us pleasure. Yet Heaven forbid that this should seem like a reproach; we have not the smallest right to make one. We must even be grateful that when here you bestow many an hour upon us. I, at least, make no claim to occupy a place in your memory."
"You do not? But, Fräulein, Cornelia?" asked Heinrich, watchfully.
"Nor does Cornelia; yet she took your silence less calmly than I. In such matters youth is more unreasonable than age."
Heinrich no longer controlled himself. "Tell me, where is she?"
"Who? Cornelia? She has gone out."
"Gone out!" exclaimed Heinrich. "Gone out, and I set out again at ten o'clock to-night to remain absent for weeks! For months I have longed for her society, and now shall not see her! I hear she is angry with me, and shall not be able to defend myself! I have caused her pain, and cannot make amends! Oh, tell me where she is, the sweet, lovely creature!"
"Alas, my dear count, I cannot," replied Veronica, while a shadow stole over her face.
"Why not? Do you not know?"