leaves she had plucked from the flower lay scattered at her feet.
Ivan bowed to her respectfully, kissed the hand of Countess
Theudelinde, and quitted the room.

Ah, there are men who never forget their first and only love!

* * * * *

Not long after Ivan had left, Count Edmund dropped in to see the
ladies. He appeared to come by accident, but he was dying with
curiosity. Countess Angela was more amiable than usual. When he was
leaving, she said to her cousin:

"Go to Salista, and tell him that I have inquired for him."

Count Edmund was courtier enough to conceal the astonishment he most
certainly felt, but as he went down the stairs he began to hum
Figaro's song from the _Barber of Seville_:

"The falseness of women
One never can know,
One never can know!"

Countess Angela wrote that same evening to her grandfather. Ivan was
right in saying the next day was his birthday, and this was her
birthday greeting:

"I am not coming home. Adieu."

* * * * *

For two days every one in Pesth spoke of Ivan and his duel with
Salista; the third day he was forgotten. Good-bye to him!

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST REHEARSAL

On the morning of his birthday Prince Theobald received a letter. It
was from his only grandchild, and ended with the word "Adieu."

The prince's birthday had been always a festival. From Angela's
childhood up to the last anniversary of the day she had each year
given him a remembrance. On this day it had been a bitter gift.

Among his treasures the old man kept a particular casket, handsomely
fitted with gold mountings, in which he preserved these birthday
offerings. There was the wreath Angela had given him when she was nine
years old; the scrawl she had written in her childish handwriting on a
sheet of Bristol-board; the bit of embroidery, worked in pearls and
gold, which later she had done for him with her own hand. To these
gifts the prince, with a deep sigh, added her last letter, with its
cold farewell.

Prince Theobald was easily moved to anger, while his heart was
sensitive to affection. When he reflected calmly he found he had every
right to exact obedience from his granddaughter. Angela owed a duty to
him, to his position, to the princely house from which she sprang. If,
indeed, her heart stood in the way of agreeing to his wishes, one
might, perhaps, excuse her; but Angela, he knew, loved no one. Why,
th