did. I really do not understand how I have deserved his friendship, and

I do not know how I can repay. Still, I would do anything for him. If now there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is his influence that has produced it. It was he who kept my place open for me while I was ill, but a little while ago he decided to do a little travelling. He did not know much about Europe, and he declared that my situation was really too hard for me. In a word, he invited me to accompany him. I refused at first, because already I was under such obligations to him, but he forced me, and at last I yielded. With the coming winter he intends to go to St. Petersburg and Moscow, and next summer he will wander about the south of Europe. You know I have always been fond of change, and have careered about a good deal myself, so no doubt I shall be of some service to him as a guide, but I have never travelled in such a style as this before. Wherever we go we have the pick of everything.”

He paused, somewhat tired of his long whispering.

“Has he so much sympathy for you?” said Eline softly. “How curious! I do not know him, of course; but I should say that his character is entirely in contrast with yours.”

“So it is. You are right. Perhaps it is for that very reason that he likes me; at all events, he is always declaring that I am much better than others think me, and than I even think myself.”

“Perhaps he finds you interesting as Elise finds me,” said Eline, with an involuntary sly little laugh. But now that she saw St. Clare approaching, she felt some self-reproach, as though she had wronged him. How could she compare the proud, manly truth that beamed from him with Elise’s airy coldness?

Elise was very busy serving out her liqueurs, and she asked Vincent whether he drank Kirsch or Curaçao, or whether he perhaps preferred cognac. Vincent sat down by the fire, beside her and Uncle Daniel, while St. Clare seated himself by the window next to Eline.

“And you are the nice little cousin, then, of whom Vincent has told me so much? The little cousin who nursed him so well?” he asked with a smile, as he placed his hands in his pockets, and with his clear, frank eyes looked penetratingly into Eline’s.

“Yes, I am the cousin who nursed him,” she answered in French. She spoke very good English, but his French pleased her, so that she did not ask him whether he preferred speaking English.

“That was at the Hague, was it not?”

“Yes, at the Hague. He was then staying at my brother-in-law’s.”

“And you were also staying with your brother-in-law, were you not?”

It seemed as if he were trying to pump her a little; but the manner in which he did it had so little of indiscretion about it and so much of interest that she did not feel hurt.

“Yes,” she answered. “Did Vincent tell you so?”

“Yes, Vincent often spoke to me about you.”

His words gave her the impression that he knew a great deal about her life. After her flight from Betsy’s house she had written Vincent, and no doubt St. Clare knew of it.

“And you have travelled a good deal, have you not?” he continued.

“Yes, with uncle and aunt. You also think of travelling, do you not?”

“Yes, as far as Russia next winter.”

Both were silent for a moment. It seemed to Eline as if they had much to say to each other, and did not know where to start. To her it seemed as if she had long known him, and now it appeared too that he knew her. They were no longer strangers to each other.

“Do you care very much for Vincent?” she asked.

“I like him very much. I feel much sympathy and pity for him. If his health had been more robust he would have made his mark. In him there is much energy and elasticity, and his views are very broad, but his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to any one thing and bringing it to completion. Most people misunderstand Vincent. They think him indolent, capricious, selfish; and they will not acknowledge that the explanation of it all is to be found in the fact that he is weak and ill. I defy the greatest and the best of us to be active and determined to turn his gifts and talents to good use if he is half dying with weakness.”

This was a light in which she had never viewed Vincent. The only thing she could say was that she had felt an unaccountable sympathy for him.

“Yes, I think you are right,” she said, after a short pause. “But do you not think that such a long journey will fatigue him too much? Russia, in the winter?”

“Oh, no, not at all; the cold climate is good for his temperament, and he need not fatigue himself—there is no work for him to do; as for mere railway travelling, he is used to it. He need only wrap himself up in his furs and lie back in his carriage. That is all.”

From his words she suspected, as she had suspected from her conversation with Vincent, that St. Clare was in the habit of surrounding him with every possible comfort and luxury.

“I must say I think you are rather kind-hearted,” she could not help remarking.

He looked at her for a moment in some surprise.

“What makes you think of that all at once?” he asked laughing.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and she blushed and laughed a little. “One cannot help getting certain impressions about people. Maybe I’m mistaken.”

He raised his hands with a deprecatory motion. She felt that in her last words there was just a shade of coquettishness, and now that she had spoken them it irritated her.

“You said just now something about energy and activity,” she resumed, “and you believe that when one is ill one ought to be excused for showing no such energy and activity?”

“Of course. What do you mean?”

In his manner there was something penetrating, something that went ever straight to its object, and it confused her somewhat. Had it been Vincent, she would very soon have plunged into some more or less misty philosophical discussion, and lost herself in a maze of sentences thin and filmy as cloudlets of steam—discussions in which neither of them knew what they were really aiming at. But St. Clare threw her entirely off her qui vive with his “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she answered with much indecision, “whether you would not even be readier to forgive one who had passed through great grief, that lack of energy and activity, than—you would forgive Vincent, who has only been ill.”

He looked at her fixedly for a moment.

“Yes, I should, that is, if he had tried to be energetic and had failed in the attempt; not otherwise, not if he had allowed himself, without an effort, to be dragged along by the force of circumstances with the simple reflection that one cannot fight against destiny. Vincent has some of that fatalism, and there is nothing that is so unnerving as that. Life would degenerate into a moral lethargy if every one did so, and simply sat down with folded hands and thought, ‘I cannot help it, come what may.’”

Her thoughts wandered a little. In fact, she did not know what she thought. And she, had she had any energy? Had she allowed herself to be dragged along by the force of circumstances? She did not know. His strength of will, his determination, oppressed and crushed her, and arrested the flow of her thoughts.

“But if that person had gone through much suffering, if he had suffered, especially with remorse, at what he once had done?” she whispered almost imploringly, with a moist glitter in her eyes, and her little foot wandered nervously along the rug, her fingers clutched at her black locket. His glance softened, filling with tenderness and pity.

“In that case—yes, then I should forgive him all,” he whispered, with a merciful assurance.

But his last words completely unnerved and abashed her. It suddenly seemed to her as if she had entirely exposed herself, as if she had said things which she should not have said, and yet it seemed as if the strength failed her to withdraw herself now that she had said so much as that.

After that day St. Clare and Vincent stayed away for about a week, and Eline began to long for their return. When they came again it was the day before New Year’s Eve, and Elise invited both for the following day, when she was giving a big soirée.

The following evening, about half-past nine, the guests arrived. Uncle Daniel and Elise courteously welcomed their somewhat loosely-picked-up acquaintances. The young men of the club, the count, the actor, the dueller and his blonde wife, were the first to make their appearance; and after that Eline saw them pass in review before their host and hostess, and a strange review it was. The gentlemen with something artificial or Bohemian about them, the ladies with much too big diamonds, and in faded silken trains. She did not feel herself at home at all in this circle, and yet she felt amused by these strange folk, who wandered about the crowded salons, the light from the candles in the Venetian chandelier glinting strangely over all that antique bronze, that antique china, that antique furniture. And there was a variety about the guests that charmed her. Eline withdrew herself a little when she saw St. Clare and Vincent approach. They were in evening dress, and it struck her that there was something distingué about them both. But after they had greeted uncle and Elise, they did not seem to observe her among the noisy groups by which they were surrounded, and Eline felt herself quite forsaken, although a little old lady, wrinkled and brown as a nut, with little red plumes in her hair, eagerly conversed with her about painters and sculptors. The old lady affected to be a great patron of struggling artists.

“I suppose it is an artistic soirée this evening?” she asked with blinking eyes.

“I believe it is,” answered Eline, with growing irritation.

“You sing, do you not?”

“Oh, no! I do not sing any more. The doctor has forbidden me to sing.”

“I suppose you intended to go on the stage?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.”

Some gentlemen came forward and bowed to the old lady, and she introduced them to Eline. They were very talented artists. Musicians, actors, painters, misunderstood geniuses all of them. The little old lady overwhelmed Eline with operas, poems, panoramas which they had written, created, and painted; their fame would ere long resound throughout the world, for she would protect them.

Eline felt as if all those misunderstood geniuses were hemming her in. Things began to shimmer and dance before her eyes, and it was a relief when she saw St. Clare coming towards her once more.

“You are so surrounded,” he laughed softly, “one can scarcely penetrate.”

Eline puckered up her little mouth contemptuously.

“Let us move aside a little. There is more room there,” she lisped.

She made her escape deftly from the circle of the geniuses, and with a sigh sank down on a settee. Nervously her fingers played about the dull gold beads that covered her low-necked corsage of black satin as with a glistening ray.

“Oh, those people do bore me,” she said with light disdain. “What sort of time did you spend in Ghent and in Bruges? Come, tell me something about it.”

He remained standing beside her, and told her a little of his trip. Here and there little groups formed themselves. The footman served wine and refreshments.

“But what is to happen this evening, I wonder?” asked St. Clare with curiosity, as he suddenly broke off his conversation.

Elise was standing, all amiability, writhing herself into all sorts of bows and curtseys before the count, and people looked round at them and whispered. The count seemed bashful, and made some excuses.

“No, don’t disappoint me, pray,” Elise was heard to say in a beseeching tone.

“I suppose she is asking him to recite something, and he is shy,” laughed Eline.

Eline was right. Elise cast a glance of triumph in the direction of some of the ladies, and the count, with a movement as if he could not help it, assumed an attitude and coughed. He would recite an epic poem, Pizarro’s account of the conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma, and the Aztecs.

A silence ensued, tempered with a low whispering. The stanzas rolled in thundering tones over the heads of the guests with a harsh rumbling of r’s.

Vincent, from another corner of the room, nodded at Eline archly. The count began to shout louder and louder.

“Magnificent! don’t you think so?” asked the little old lady with the red plumes, who had once more come back to Eline.

Eline nodded approvingly, but here and there a cough was heard, and despairing faces were to be seen all over the room. The whispering, too, grew a little louder.

“Patience and resignation,” Eline said to St. Clare with a smile.

He smiled in return, and she no longer found the immense poem so unbearably boring now that he stood by her side. When the count’s last stanza had died away a sort of electric movement began to be manifest among the erstwhile motionless groups. They laughed and they talked and they pushed one another. Some ladies were expressing their thanks to the count with a great show of rapture.

“Could we not devise some protection against his next attack?” asked St. Clare laughing.

“We shall be freer in the conservatory,” said Eline.

With some trouble they threaded their way to the little conservatory. There were only two little groups—two old gentlemen seated at the table covered with empty wine-glasses, and a little woman in active conversation with a young man. There prevailed a soft balsamic odour which permeated as with a breath from the tropics the palms and the Vanilla plants and the orchids that were crowded together in rich profusion. Outside a snowstorm was showering around its flakes of downy white. They had scarcely sat down before they heard some chords struck on the piano in the adjoining room. The actor, a bass, was about to sing a duet with the fair-haired jeweller’s wife. St. Clare and Eline could see them standing by the piano, their figures reflected in the mirrors of the conservatory, while one of the misunderstood composers was to accompany them.

“I had no idea that she sang,” Eline exclaimed in surprise. “La bonne surprise! it’s really getting amusing, but don’t stop talking.”

A blush rose to her cheek, and something of her former sparkling fascination came back to her. Now and then she lifted her champagne glass to her lips. In close attention she listened to his stories. He spoke so well. Yonder the high shrieks of the soprano and the low growling of the bass intermingled with overpowering if somewhat ludicrous effect. The conservatory gradually filled with little groups who were making their escape from the drawing-room. Vincent came to join St. Clare and Eline.

“Je ne dérange pas?” asked he.

“Par exemple!” cried Eline.

It seemed as if the three of them had found themselves at some public fête. They scarcely knew one among all those curious people, and they amused themselves by laughing a little at them. The two old gentlemen’s collection of empty wine-glasses seemed to have grown larger and larger, and under the shady leaves of a banana the young man could be seen with his arm furtively encircling the waist of the little woman. In the other corner, where some glasses had just been broken, Vincent recognized some one, who posed as a Russian prince, engaged in boisterous chat with two circus-riders, and he could not understand how they could have been admitted even to Uncle Daniel’s drawing-room.

“Oh, they must have entered through a back door. I’m sure Elise cannot know that they are here,” laughed Eline.

In the salon the programme was proceeding. They sang, they recited, both serious and comic pieces, but the stillness of admiration grew less and less. In the conservatory the Russian prince ran after the circus-riders, and tried to embrace them; and the two old gentlemen all at once broke out in a terribly angry dispute. The young couple had disappeared.

“I should advise you to return a little closer to your uncle and aunt. The company is certainly getting rather mixed here,” said St. Clare to Eline.

Vincent had left them. Eline rose a little anxiously, and St. Clare followed her. But in the salon Elise was surrounded by a very noisy group, of which the ladies smoked cigarettes and spilt more champagne on their dresses than they drank. St. Clare led Eline to the terrace. His eyes sparkled and his lips twitched nervously as his glance fell on the group by which Elise was surrounded.

“How did you really get here?” he suddenly asked Eline in a tone of dissatisfaction which he could not hide. “How is it possible that I could have met you here?”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“I ask you how it is possible that I could have found you here? You are certainly not in proper company.”

She began to see his meaning, and started at the boldness of his question.

“Not in proper company,” she slowly repeated. “May I remind you that I am at the house of my uncle and aunt?”

“I know that. But your uncle and aunt, it seems to me, are in the habit of receiving people who are not fit company for you. You are here with the consent of your relations, I suppose?”

She began to tremble all over, and her eyes were fixed upon him with all the haughtiness that she could at that moment muster up.

“May I ask you, Mr. St. Clare, by what right you place me under cross-examination? I thought I was free to do as I pleased, and am old enough to choose my friends without anybody’s consent, either that of my relations or of yourself.”

Her tone was sharp and cutting. She was about to turn away. He took her hand, she quickly withdrew it.

“Do stay a moment, pray. Forgive me if I have hurt you. But I take an interest in you, I have heard so much about you from Vincent. I knew you, in fact, before I had seen you. I looked upon you somewhat—somewhat, if I may say it, as a little sister, just as I thought of Vincent as my brother; and now I find you here, mixed with people——”

“Thank you very much for your good intentions,” she resumed with icy coldness, “but in future please to give expression to your brotherly interest in a more proper fashion. You knew me before you had seen me, it is possible. I have known you now for a week, and I cannot understand how you dare to speak to me as if you were called upon to be my guardian. I am much obliged to you for your solicitude, but I do not need it.”

He made a movement of impatience, and once more prevented her from going. She was still trembling with rage, but she stayed.

“Now do not be angry, pray,” he resumed appeasingly. “Perhaps I did speak rather boldly; but don’t you think yourself that the company here is not suited to you?”

“The acquaintances of my uncle and aunt may be mine as well, I should imagine. In any case, it is a matter which does not concern you in the least.”

“Why do you forbid me to take an interest in you?”

“Because you take advantage.”

“And is there no pardon for that when it is merely caused by a feeling of sincere friendship?” he asked, and held out his hand.

“Oh, certainly,” she answered coldly, apparently without noticing his hand. “But, in future, pray spare me your feelings of friendship. Too much interest in one is sometimes annoying.”

Much hurt she turned away.

He remained alone on the terrace, and he saw her disappear among the circus-riders and the Russian prince, the fair-haired lady, the two drunken gentlemen, and the poetical count.