even her prudish cousinly chaperon seems to accept this as
but the natural manner in which the hero takes possession of his
heaven-born bride.

So rousing to his sleeping passion was his sudden abandonment to this
old memory, that he now went to a drawer and rummaged for her
photograph. After the Baron, her father, that ultra-respectable
Bavarian diplomatist, had refused to hear her speak of the
Jew-demagogue, Lassalle had asked her to send him her portrait, as he
wished to build a house adorned with frescoes, and the artist was to
seek in her the inspiration of his Brunehild. In the rush of his life,
project and photograph had been alike neglected. He had let her go
without much effort--in a way he still considered her his, since the
opposition had not come from her. But had he been wise to allow this
drifting apart? Great political events might be indeed maturing, but
oh, how slowly, and there was always that standing danger of her
"Moorish Prince"--the young Wallachian student, Janko von Racowitza,
the "dragon who guards my treasure," as he had once called him, and
who, though betrothed to her, was the slave of her caprices, ready to
sacrifice himself if she loved another better, a gentle, pliant
creature Lassalle could scarcely understand, especially considering
his princely blood.

When he at last came upon the photograph, he remembered with a thrill
that her birthday was at hand. She would be of age in a day or two, no
longer the puppet of her father's will.

VI

When a little later the Countess Hatzfeldt was announced, he had
forgotten he was expecting her. He slipped the photograph back among
the papers, and moved forward hurriedly to greet her.

Her face was the face of the beautiful portrait on the wall, grown
twice as old, but with the lines of beauty still clear under the
unnecessary touches of rouge, so that sometimes, despite her frosted
hair, one could imagine her life at its spring-tide. This was
especially so when the sunshine leapt into her eyes. But, at her
oldest, there remained to her the dignity of the Princess born, the
charm of the woman of virile intellect and vast social experience.

"Something is troubling you," she said.

He smiled reassuringly. "My brother-in-law popped in from Prague. He
read me a sermon."

"That would not trouble you, Ferdinand."

Lassalle was silent.

"You have heard again from that Sophie de Solutzew!"

"Divinatrix! After three years! You are wonderful a