c composition of the
guests is very curious. Baroness Dinati has furnished us with an
'ollapodrida' which would have pleased her husband. There is a little of
everything. Doesn't it astonish you?"

"No," said Michel. "This hybrid collection is representative of modern
society. I have met almost all these faces at Nice; they are to be seen
everywhere."

"To me," retorted Yanski, in his guttural voice, "these people are
phenomena."

"Phenomena? Not at all. Life of to-day is so complicated that the most
unexpected people and events find their place in it. You have not lived,
Varhely, or you have lived only for your idol, your country, and
everything amazes you. If you had, like me, wandered all over the world,
you would not be astonished at anything; although, to tell the
truth"--and the young man's voice became bitter, trenchant, and almost
threatening--"we have only to grow old to meet with terrible surprises,
very hard to bear."

As he spoke, he glanced, involuntarily perhaps, at Marsa Laszlo, leaning
on the railing just below him.

"Oh! don't speak of old age before you have passed through the trials
that Zilah and I have," responded Varhely. "At eighteen, Andras Zilah
could have said: 'I am old.' He was in mourning at one and the same time
for all his people and for our country. But you! You have grown up, my
dear fellow, in happy times. Austria, loosening her clutch, has permitted
you to love and serve our cause at your ease. You were born rich, you
married the most charming of women"--

Michel frowned.

"That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life," continued Varhely. "It
seems to me only yesterday that you lost the poor child."

"It is over two years, however," said Michel, gravely. "Two years! How
time flies!"

"She was so charming," said old Yanski, not perceiving the expression of
annoyance mingled with sadness which passed over the young man's face. "I
knew your dear wife when she was quite small, in her father's house. He
gave me an asylum at Prague, after the capitulation signed by Georgei.
Although I was an Hungarian, and he a Bohemian, her father and I were
great friends."

"Yes," said Menko, rapidly, "she often spoke of you, my dear Varhely.
They taught her to love you, too. But," evidently seeking to turn the
conversation to avoid a subject which was painful to him, "you spoke of
Georgei. Ah! our generation has never known your brave hopes; and your
grief, believe me, was better than our bo