, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on
tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened
eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly
wrinkled.

CHAPTER VIII

Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the
hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince
Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business--of labors and visits
which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be
wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long
hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote,
reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a
multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between
occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night,
or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to
bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he
had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth
of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven
that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of
these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And
what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure
in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men,
who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had
hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time
at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation,
the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and
physical condition of wild men--seemed to him children which were
sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous
amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no
access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the
seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true,
though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who
was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they
halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the
snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field;
the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He
confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he
took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature.
Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and
nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them.
Perhaps he, too, would have done so