of an hour or so was not to be
included in my lot.

"_O, bewahre!_" said he, with a little laugh, that chilled me still
further. "I think no such thing. The beauty is there, _mein
Fraeulein_--pardon me for saying so--"

Indeed, I was well able to pardon it. Had he been informing his
grandmother that there were the remains of a handsome woman to be traced
in her, he could not have spoken more unenthusiastically.

"The beauty is there. The rest, as I said, when one has friends, these
things are arranged for one."

"But I have no friends."

"No," with again that dry little laugh. "Perhaps they will be provided
at the proper time, as Elijah was fed by the ravens. Some fine
night--who knows--I may sit with my violin in the orchestra at your
benefit, and one of the bouquets with which you are smothered may fall
at my feet and bring me _aus der fuge_. When that happens, will you
forgive me if I break a rose from the bouquet before I toss it on to the
feet of its rightful owner? I promise that I will seek for no note, nor
spy out any ring or bracelet. I will only keep the rose in remembrance
of the night when I skated with you across the Schwanenspiegel, and
prophesied unto you the future. It will be a kind of 'I told you so,' on
my part."

Mock sentiment, mock respect, mock admiration; a sneer in the voice, a
dry sarcasm in the words. What was I to think? Why did he veer round in
this way, and from protecting kindness return to a raillery which was
more cruel than his silence? My blood rose, though, at the mockingness
of his tone.

"I don't know what you mean," said I, coldly. "I am studying operatic
music. If I have any success in that line, I shall devote myself to it.
What is there wrong in it? The person who has her living to gain must
use the talents that have been given her. My talent is my voice;
it is the only thing I have--except, perhaps, some capacity to
love--those--who are kind to me. I can do that, thank God! Beyond that
I have nothing, and I did not make myself."

"A capacity to love those who are kind to you," he said, hastily. "And
do you love all who are kind to you?"

"Yes," said I, stoutly, though I felt my face burning.

"And hate them that despitefully use you?"

"Naturally," I said, with a somewhat unsteady laugh. A rush of my ruling
feeling--propriety and decent reserve--tied my tongue, and I could not
say, "Not all--not always."

He, however, snapped, as it were, at my remark or admissi