Diana
Date: 2025-12-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Europe -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Diana

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Title: Diana

A novel

Author: Emil Ludwig

Translator: Cedar Paul

Eden Paul

Release date: December 16, 2025 [eBook #77479]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77479

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIANA ***

DIANA

A Novel

By EMIL LUDWIG

Translated by
EDEN & CEDAR PAUL

A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
New York      Chicago

Published by arrangement with The Viking Press

Printed in U. S. A.

DIANA

Originally published in German as two separate novels: Diana. 1917, and Meeresstille, Roman eines deutschen Prinzen, 1918. Copyright by Ernst Rowohlt Verlag, Berlin. Revised version, arranged by the author as a single novel, first published 1929.

Copyright, 1929, by
THE VIKING PRESS, INC,

First printing December, 1929
Second printing December, 1929

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

BOOK TWO

BOOK THREE

BOOK FOUR

BOOK FIVE

BOOK SIX

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

"Nothing in sight? Not caught a glimpse of her sail yet?"

"No, Sir. But she'll be all right today. The wind's from the south-east; and the weather is glorious this morning."

"Yes, I know; but this lake of yours is full of shallows and whirlpools."

"La Signora sails her boat with so sure a hand, she might have been born and bred in Baveno!"

The gardener's voice faded away as he pottered about among the fish-tanks and continued to mutter to himself: "... born and bred in Baveno."

Andreas, who had called down to the old man from the top of a craggy eminence, dropped the hand he had raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, so that he might put it to more immediate uses. The bunch of flowers he had gathered was so large that it needed both hands to hold the nosegay together.

"Narcissus!" exclaimed the poet, caressing the blossoms with sensitive fingers, while they swayed gently in the breeze. "Narcissus, fresh as the morning dew! Nothing else can rival Diana's fragrance. And yet—may she not have been akin to other flowers in the past, and may she not resemble yet others in the future? Likenesses ever changing, ever renewed? Would it have entered my head to compare her to the camellias blooming over there in chill white pyramids? Beautiful they are, proud of mien; but scentless and passionless. Perhaps some women are like that!"

The thought dumbfounded him, and he sank down on to a rocky seat. Pulling a notebook from the pocket of his purple dressing-gown, he scribbled assiduously for a while. Then he looked up, gazed at the flowers, jotted down a few more words. Finally he tore off the page and started afresh. He no longer took his eyes from the paper, but continued to write diligently until the sonnet was complete. He began to read it in an undertone, gradually allowing his voice to become louder, until at the eighth line he had achieved a resounding forte. After that he restrained the volume of sound, and finished up with a ritenuto, as if he were playing the final bars of a Bach fugue.

"How Diana will laugh," he thought. "She'll read it twice. Then she will open her mother-of-pearl box and lay this page on the top of the others. Quite unexpectedly one evening, one mild evening, the lines will slowly drop from her delicate lips. Othello must bring her up here when she lands. Othello!"

The Great Dane was snuffing the air as he stood on the landing-stage which gave access to the little island. As his master called him by name, the animal pricked up his ears, sought Andreas's whereabouts with eyes and nose. Having caught sight of the young man, Othello sprang upward over the rocks and pushed his way through the azaleas. The dog's movements were so swift that a trail of white and rose-coloured blossoms was wafted along in his wake.

He came to a halt, and stood attentive and watchful. Like Gothic columns, his forelegs rose to the graceful arch of his chest; his blue eyes had the glint of steel, cold, yet betraying the hidden fires within; his ears were twitching, his whole being was aquiver, and he seemed to be asking: "Well, Master, what do you wish me to do?" Andreas fondled the beast's Head, and the signs of eager expectation gradually disappeared. The muscles relaxed, a dreamy look came into the eyes, the dog yielded luxuriously to the caress, his left paw advancing slightly. As far as is possible to a dumb beast, Othello had approximated to the reflective mood and the attitude of his master.

"Keep still a moment," said the poet. "I want to fix my sonnet in your collar; ... so ... mind you don't lose it. It's for your mistress, as soon as she comes ashore. Understand? For Diana."

The dog had remained motionless, but at the name of Diana he whined, became restless, and, hardly waiting for Andreas to release the collar, darted away to take up his post of sentinel on the landing-stage.

Andreas sauntered towards the house. Occasionally he would kick a stone out of the path, would pluck a yellowing leaf, raise a trailing plant from the ground. He acted mechanically, like one who prefers things to be orderly, who loves tidiness. These minor occupations in the garden or the house unconsciously betrayed a certain restlessness of disposition. Suddenly, as so often happened after he had composed a poem, he felt inexpressibly tired.

"I wonder," he murmured, a faint smile puckering his lips, "I wonder if my fatigue is just the usual tiredness one experiences after a night of love? Diana was never so beautiful as she was last night. Was she still like a narcissus? Or did my imagination conjure up the passionate hour of which I have dreamed since earliest boyhood? I must be honest with myself. Has ever woman thrown herself into my arms with such whole-hearted abandonment as I into the arms of women? Sonia? She was nothing but a little savage. Francisca? She was merely sensuous. But Diana never promised anything. She is not called Diana for nothing! When have I ever before, either with my eyes or in fancy, actually or in a dream, been so dazzled by any woman?"

He turned to gaze once again over the waters of the lake. Scuds of foam seemed to rise from the surface. So absorbed was he in his contemplation of this phenomenon, that he forgot to watch for Diana's boat, a sight of which he so ardently coveted.

"I wonder how early she set sail? No matter the hour at which I wake in the morning, her place by my side is always empty, smooth and cold. She must creep away to her dressing-room on bare feet. When at last I awake, it is to the sound of her voice calling me. By that time she has been abroad two hours at least in the fresh air, and has a keen appetite for breakfast. But today? Even as I slept, I was conceited enough to imagine that after such delights she would surely not go for an early sail. She had been so full of ecstasy...."

Andreas strode forward into the blaze of the blossoming rhododendrons. The flowers stimulated his memory of the hours of passion and his body quivered in response. He raised his brows as he mused:

"Diana as Venus? Impious thought!"

He plucked idly at the stamens of the flowers in his hand, while his thoughts wandered. He was called back to reality by the dog, who approached with every sign of uneasiness.

"Well, Othello, what's up?"

He quickened his pace and glanced towards the house across the terrace where a wicker table was laid for breakfast. On reaching the top of the steps, he turned about, and once more gazed over the blue and gold surface of the waters.

"Domenico!"

"Yes, Sir," came the old gardener's voice in answer. Then after a pause: "I see nothing as yet. Signora usually crosses over by the south-eastern end of Isola Madre."

"I know; but what about Intra?"

"No sign of a sail there either."

Suddenly Andreas was seized with anxiety on account of his beloved, an anxiety which was rendered more acute by a vague presentiment of evil. Were the gods taking revenge because Diana had been delighting in joys which her name would imply her insensible to? Was the boon so recently granted him already to be snatched from his grasp? Had he been over-bold?

"What can it all mean? Why is the dog whining, I wonder?"

Still hoping to find her, he wandered through the low-ceilinged rooms of the house, through the cloistered archways which linked the rooms together, and up the steps which separated them. At his heels walked Othello, snuffing the same trail. Both seekers came to a halt in Diana's room. On the gaily coloured floor, in a green earthenware pot, were the tall sprays of broom she had brought home last night, waving her trophy aloft like an orange flag. The white curtains flapped in the breeze, and he glanced through the windows which gave a view from three angles on to the lake. Nearby was the writing-table on which was placed a silver vase filled with iris.

"The curtain might upset that," thought Andreas, with solicitude.

He grasped the vase, intending to transfer it to a place of security, and, as he touched the cold metal, a chill ran up his arm and struck him to the heart. His heart seemed to stop beating; then it fluttered wildly against his ribs. He had caught sight of a note propped against the vase: the cover bore his own name in Diana's handwriting. At once the truth flashed through his mind: "She has gone!"

The nosegay of narcissus slowly dropped from his hand. Then he seized the hard, white paper, while Othello, seeming to understand all that was afoot, rubbed himself against Andreas's knee. The young man gazed down at the missive of fate as it lay in his hand; then, delaying the evil moment, he thrust it deep into his pocket. His fingers fondled the paper, unseen, as though he were trying to warm the inexorable message with his life blood. He looked over towards the lake; then, again, his eyes travelled round the room. Leaning on the window sill, he drew the letter forth and at length read its contents. As he folded the sheet of paper, he stepped out on to the terrace, told the dog to lie down, and paced to and fro in the shade of the wistaria whose green leaves and lilac flowers were trained on a pergola overhead. Othello's steel-blue eyes followed every movement, from the wicker couch on to which he had flung himself in obedience to his master's command. His great head was pillowed on his crossed paws.

CHAPTER TWO

"My Dear,

"When I woke this morning I saw you lying before me, a boy asleep. Your dark, curly head was turned away so that I could hardly reach your beautiful forehead when I leaned across to kiss you. I gave you no more than a butterfly kiss on your closed eyelids; I did not venture to touch your lips, which were half open as you slept.

"The radiant weather calls me forth this morning. I shall sail away in the very boat that brought us—how many weeks ago?—to this island. With sail set, I shall make for Baveno. By the time you wake I shall be in Milan; by the time you read this, I do not know where I shall be.

"Do not try to find me. Did not your spirit leap towards me as, masked, we danced together amid the many other masked couples that night in the palace on the Piazza di Spagna? Did I not place my fullest trust in you, a stranger, whose name was unknown to me just as was mine to you? Did I not come with you willingly when, after the ball, we left Rome and travelled together till we alighted on the shores of this gracious lake? Let these dream days bask in their own beauty. Do not try to find reasons for my flight. Do not follow me.

"We were unchallenged monarchs of the island, hedged in by laurel groves, severed from the inquisitive eyes of the envious, united, you and I, both by day and by night.

"Poems fell from your lips, my poet; and morning after morning I found a fresh sonnet to my praise lying ambushed for my return in ever-renewed hiding places in our garden. Why trouble to wake? Your people are on your trail—I saw you trying to push your letters away out of my sight! Soon, your money will run short, and after one day of uneasiness, you would have to go to the town, a smile on your lips, hoping to delude me.

"What of myself? How often I have heard you say half mockingly and half in earnest: 'You are made for adventure.' Remember your own words. The spirit of adventure runs in my veins and has even affected you.

"Yesterday, in the gloaming, while we sat on the terrace watching the circle of lights along the shores of the lake, you spoke softly to me, gentle words that fell sweetly on my ears. Of a sudden, away there on the mainland, two fiery eyes appeared, and a snake uncoiled its glittering length alluringly beneath the precipitous side of the mountain. Now it would disappear, now shine out again; at one moment its voice would be stilled, to roar forth the instant after. It was the train from the Simplon. Never before had it made such an impression on me. I felt that this was the very snake, magical and glowing, within whose coils I had been spirited through the world in days gone by. That now it carried men and women who had sped away from Paris in the morning and would awaken as day dawned to find themselves in Milan. I could imagine them coming from far castles in the Scottish highlands to seek the warm air of Palermo. Who were they all and what plans had they for themselves? Unrest seethed within me. I felt I must get away from this enchanted isle, that a narrow arm of water was keeping me cloistered from the world, that the hurly-burly was summoning me to the fray—whither I knew not.

"My grateful thanks to you! Nothing repeats itself; and, even if fate should make our paths cross a second time, that which united us this night can never recur, any more than the silent kisses I gave you in farewell. Our island cannot be snatched from us: it is ours now as it has been during all these weeks. I am taking no more than the little mother-of-pearl box which contains your poems, and within which your spirit lies at rest. Nothing else goes with me, for, if they saw me packing up, your kindly old servants would want to know my destination. Forgive me for leaving the clothes you gave me, the clothes your appraising eye so often looked at as I dressed in the morning, and which your ardent hands pulled from my limbs at night with so much passion.

"In a minute or two Othello will, as usual, come down to the landing-stage, and wag his tail expectantly, hoping to be taken on board. I shall sail swiftly away before the wind, without turning for a last look; I must keep watch over myself lest the unbidden tears come to my eyes.

"The wind is blowing. Keep serene of heart, even though you may feel sad; and remember the motto inscribed on the escutcheon of your soul. Be grateful! Thank the gods, even as I do, for granting us this sweetest of springtimes. Ave Poeta!

"DIANA."

By the time Andreas had read the letter a third time he found himself on the landing-stage. An instinct urged him towards the water, her special element, and kept him away from the height whence, above the cypresses that barred the view from below, he might gaze southward over the lake. From that little eminence he could have seen Baveno and the coast line. Othello, who had not left Andreas's side the whole morning, stood beside the young man and endeavoured to lap the waves as they plashed over the landing-stage. But always, before his red tongue could reach them, the waters had withdrawn again.

Now, from round a rocky point, a little boat came in sight. It had come from the direction of Pallanza and another thirty strokes of the oars would bring it ashore. The great dog pricked up his ears as the oarsman waved a hand in greeting. Andreas leaped to his feet, and hailed the new arrival.

"Nikolai!"

"Andreas!" exclaimed a melodious voice in response.

"You, here?" A cross-fire of surmises rushed through the poet's brain. Uneasiness as to why his friend had come over the waters to intrude upon his solitude. This sudden arrival at such a moment seemed to smack of intrigue.

"Nikolai," he thought, "dearest of friends; Nikolai the wise, could he have lent himself to a plot of any kind? No, no, it cannot be!"

The feeling of mistrust was ephemeral, and Andreas soon pulled himself together, remembering his duties as host and as master of the island. Nikolai threw him the painter, and while tying it to the bollard, Andreas said with a note of irritation in his voice:

"This is a surprise!"

Nikolai was quick to perceive his friend's momentary annoyance. He felt quite unembarrassed as he thought: "Ah, well, these lovers' moods change from day to day!" Then, turning to Andreas, he asked courteously:

"Am I disturbing you? Don't you want my company after all?"

These words made Andreas yet more uneasy, for he concluded from them that Diana's flight was known to his friend and had, therefore, been planned some time ago. He stretched out his hand to help Nikolai to land, and as he did so he said:

"In what way could you ever disturb me, old man?"

At his master's first call across the water towards the oncoming boat, Othello had changed his bark of warning to a soft whine; and until the two men clasped hands, the dog's attitude had been one of alert defiance. Now he followed the two friends as they made their way up hill towards the house. He sniffed at their heels and at the leather satchel the oarsman held trailing from his hand. Both young men endeavoured to conceal their emotion behind a flow of conventional banalities. The new arrival continued to expatiate at frequent intervals upon the beauties of the island, while Andreas asked again and again if his friend had had a comfortable journey. At length Nikolai exclaimed:

"Of course I took the very first train from Milan, the eight o'clock, the sooner to be with you...."

Andreas stopped in his walk, looked squarely into his friend's grey eyes, and asked in surprise:

"Do you mean to say that you've come in answer to a summons?"

Even more amazed than his interlocutor, Nikolai delved into his pockets and after a little search produced a telegram which he handed over, saying:

"Didn't you send this?"

Andreas read the message: "Baveno. Please come as soon as possible to the little island to see your friend Andreas."

A light of understanding flashed through the poet's mind. Diana, herself fleeing from him, had sent his best friend to his side in order that the crushing solitude he would experience in the garden of their love might be rendered more bearable by Nikolai's presence. He stood stock still for a moment, biting his lips. Then he fondled Othello's head, as if by this caress he might compensate himself for the lack of a touch from Diana's loving hand. At length, steadying his voice with difficulty as he uttered the name of his mistress, he said:

"No. This must have been sent by Diana."

His friend was silent. Both men turned to go up the terrace steps.

"Have you quarrelled?"

"No."

"Where's she gone off to?"

"I don't know. She has sent you here to comfort me, no doubt." Then, hoping to conceal his wound, he added wryly: "Rather a painful mission, eh?"

Nikolai glanced at him and, cogitating upon the young man's equivocal situation, mused: "Least said, soonest mended!"

"What do you say to half an hour's row?" said Andreas coming suddenly to a halt. "Are you hungry? No? Hi! Domenico! Get the boat out!"

The Russian was quick to perceive that his friend fought shy of the house, and readily acquiesced in the plan. Soon the two of them were facing each other in the boat, one at the oars while his comrade steered. Andreas was still in his dressing-gown, hatless; Nikolai in white trousers, blue blazer, and a tight-fitting cap. They eyed one another surreptitiously, yet each was aware of his companion's scrutiny. Andreas's countenance made a strong appeal to Nikolai. It was a wilful face, crowned with a wealth of curly hair, which was not quite in keeping with the gentle curve of the mouth. He thought:

"I can well understand why women should prefer him to me."

Andreas, for his part, gazed fixedly at Nikolai, trying to extract the secret of his soul by a contemplation of his facial characteristics. Accustomed to reading people at a glance, he jumped now to the conclusion that the high cheek-bones prevalent among the Slavs denoted fanatical asceticism, the deep-set eyes betokened moderation in enjoyment, the thin, long nose must signify cautiousness when dealing with fellow mortals, the fine, rather thin growth of hair must prove that the owner had early experienced the joys of the flesh, the reticence of his deportment and the noble lines of the hand that lay on the gunwale showed him to be a man of taste and of aristocratic birth. The poet said to himself:

"I have known all this from the first day of our acquaintance."

"Shall we land?" The voice broke in on the silence as the boat neared Isola Madre.

Slowly the two friends climbed the hill. The morning freshness still pervaded the air. A bird trilled its rapture from bushes which scattered their leaves with lavish generosity over the yellow path, while, all around, the glittering expanse of the lake sent up dappled reflections amid the green. The youths strode forward on a carpet of moss and closely cropped ivy. At length they reached the warmer part of the island, passed through the flower-decked forest of rhododendrons, disappeared among thickets of pink camellias, brushed away the dew from the tall sprays of meadowsweet, and emerged amid the mimosas whose arid branches waved their ochre-tinted plumes like immense powder-puffs in the air. Sedate, delicate, and elastic, like well-trained German countesses, the cedars thrust their dark heads upward towards the sky, and the laurels, their branches constrained on espalier frames, or fettered together to form bouquets, or clipped into shapes and figurines, stretched out arms imploringly as if in longing for their leaves to be used to cool the fevered brows of inspired poets.

No word was spoken as the two friends slowly climbed the hill. Every turn in the path, every plant, every shade and sound and smell, brought the beloved woman visibly and palpably before Andreas's eyes. Here they had wandered together; this was her very world. She had felt all these things, had spoken of them romantically or with worldly wisdom, with irreverence or mystery, just as the spirit moved her. And all she said was impregnated with such a power of imaginative faculty as is only to be found as a rule among children of exceptional gifts.

They had reached the pergola of Chinese tea-roses through whose yellow blossoms glimpses of Monte Rosa could be seen amid a white-and-blue landscape. Suddenly Andreas came to a standstill, laid his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder, and began talking as if the latter had actively participated in his whole train of thought. As he spoke he gesticulated, and his voice was agitated as if he were experiencing the excitement of a new discovery.

"An atmosphere of freedom envelops her—do you understand that, Nikolai? Freedom such as—such as hovers around that mountain over there, so that it can rear its crest of ice upward towards the sun, such as pervades this pergola whose roses have graciously permitted a gardener's hand to twine their shoots round the trellis, such freedom as the warm surface of this lake exhales at noon and yet enables it at midnight to mirror the coldly shining stars. Do you realize what it is we are ever in search of? Perfect art accompanied by innocent cheer. Fullness, mystery hand in hand with absolute clarity, the appropriate mood to every hour; wisdom and foolishness, surmise and knowledge, the past freed from sorrow, the magical recipe which will enable us to be bold and modest at one and the same moment, the masters of life and the servitors of fate.... Do you know Diana?"

He threw the four words at his friend as if they were a ball for Nikolai to catch. Before the Russian could answer, he exclaimed:

"You have seen her once, she told me so. Just once; for a few minutes. But that would be long enough for you to realize everything...."

"What did she say?" asked Nikolai, trying to recall the incidents of the encounter.

They sat down on two wrought-iron chairs which they found tilted against the balustrade of the uppermost terrace. Andreas threw one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the parapet, and propped up his head while his eyes travelled over the waters. Then his attention was caught by a stray branch which he carefully plaited into the trellis-work lest it should be broken. Though he was unaware of it, he had assumed Diana's characteristic pose. Without stirring, he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"One day, when I was sorting some papers, your photo tumbled out on to the floor. She picked it up and said: 'I know this face.' To which I replied: 'He's a friend of mine.'—'That's a good thing,' said she, 'I met him once, not so very long ago'—you know how vague she is about dates, and how definite is her remembrance of places—'it must have been in Milan last autumn, one day as I came out of the twilit cathedral. I was wearied with the darkness, and the mass I had been attending. Nevertheless the square with its noisy trams and people and loafing youths, disgusted me. Where could I creep away to quietude? I questioned the oracle. Should I go to right or left? Since the next comer approached me from the left, I determined to go in that direction. The oracle was favourable, for from the narrow street a shop-front beckoned me. I was rooted to the spot. Huge butterflies from Brazil were spread before me in cases. Their wings might have been made of precious stones, so dazzling were the colours. I seemed to be entering into a night of stars'—you are laughing?"

"I am only laughing because," protested Nikolai, "I remember standing at her side, studying the fearless line of her profile and marvelling at the fervour of her contemplation."

"At last she saw you and spoke to you," continued Andreas.

"'Conosce quello, Signore?' said a clear voice in my ear," and Nikolai, too, seemed unconsciously to assume one of Diana's characteristic poses. "But I had to admit that I knew nothing about them."

Andreas had not heard his friend's words. Yet he gathered Diana's question together as if it were some costly jewel worth studying in a good light. He turned the phrase over this way and that, untiringly reiterating: "Conosce quello, Signore? Conosce quello?"

Nikolai awaited his friend's pleasure in silence. At length, Andreas roused himself from his reverie with a laugh.

"Do forgive me! What else did she say? She never told me. All she confided to me was that, when you and she were looking at the specimens together and were talking about them, she had been struck by the melodiousness of your voice and by the fine shape of your hand as it rested on the glass."

"But the really remarkable thing was yet to come," exclaimed Nikolai. "At my request for information, she pointed to this specimen and to that, telling me the place in South America whence it came, the nature of the forests it inhabited, together with the lakes and swamps it needed for its well-being; she distinguished species from varieties; indeed, had I not surprised the initial look of imaginative delight she had cast on the scintillating assembly, I might have fancied her a member of a zoological academy—and incontinently taken to flight!"

Andreas nodded his appreciation, and said encouragingly:

"Well, and what did she say next?"

"She stretched out her hand towards me, and, with a look that glanced at me and then back to the butterflies again, in a tone that was charmingly candid and yet ambiguous, at once delighting me and imposing a barrier to further advance, she said: 'Beautiful!' Her lips remained slightly apart, and her curls were lifted in the breeze as she turned to go."

"You did not try to discover who she was?"

"I do not wantonly pry into the secrets of fate! Still, destiny held something in store for me. A week later, as I was leaving Countess Borromeo's, she came in, and the footman announced her name."

"I told her yours while she was here," observed Andreas. Then, impetuously, he held his hand out to his friend. Nikolai grasped it warmly, and said:

"When I learned last February that you and she had vanished after the carnival ball..."

"Were you uneasy?" interrupted Andreas with some acerbity, trying to withdraw his hand. Nikolai resisted the attempt, maintaining a firm grip and laying his left hand affectionately on the back of his friend's right.

"On the contrary, I felt perfectly happy. Remembering that you are a poet, I thought: 'He could not have fallen into better hands!'"

CHAPTER THREE

Twelve hours later, as they sat on the terrace of the white house, they were still talking of her. The coloured lampions overhead swayed gently in the breeze.

"She has bestowed many a beautiful hymn upon you," murmured Nikolai, closing the book upon his finger. "I should like to hear you read this one," he continued, handing over the volume wherein Andreas had copied the poems he had recently composed. The poet glanced through the one his friend had indicated. After turning a few pages, he paused, meditated a moment, then began reading aloud, making no effort to conceal his emotion. His voice hummed through the quiet May night. When he had finished, he sat motionless, gazing at the lights along the shore, the twinkling, moving lights.

"Movement," he said softly. "Poetry merely creates petrified images. Paper, written over with conventional signs ... and there, without, every day sees a mighty...."

"Be thankful for what you have," interposed his friend. "Could you expect greater treasures from yourself or from the world than...?"

"The world! The world! Greater treasures! The whole silly business sickens me. I want to do something totally different."

It seemed as if he had been controlling such an outbreak all day, as he flung out of his chair and strode to the edge of the terrace. He leaned upon the parapet, throwing his arms outward towards the lake as though he craved to grasp the world, the mainland, which in the twinkling lights seemed alluringly close to the island.

"I want to possess all that, do you hear? Possess it, not write poems about it. I don't want to capture rare and lovely things from the world! This evening I am filled with the feeling that all my six-and-twenty years have been passed on an island, passed in contemplation, a pencil in my hand, agog to catch a rhythm here or a harmony there—while, across the water the train on the Simplon railway was hurrying men and women through the world, day in day out for six-and-twenty years."

He turned abruptly, and marched towards his friend. Thumping the table so that the glasses rang, he exclaimed:

"You fancy that Diana is my muse because this sheaf of poems has fallen from her hand on to my field? Listen, Nikolai, you don't know her! She is a missile, an arrow, ever speeding in front of you, ever tempting you to run in emulation of its swift flight. You saw her for ten seconds; but have you gained nothing from her passage? You are a seer? Yet have you not penetrated to deeper things because you have seen her? Tell me, am I become clearer-sighted or madder since she went?"

He dropped to his knees beside his friend's chair and, fixing his blazing eyes upon Nikolai, seemed to wrench the words from the latter's lips.

"No, you are not mad. That very evening, after I had seen her, I went home vowing to make use of every year that was left to me of youth to cultivate all that was worth while in me. During the ensuing six months I wrote my book on morphology, a work which had remained on the stocks for so long."

"Have you finished it?"

"It's to be published this summer."

"Do tell me how you felt that evening...."

"I took the beautiful creature to be an apparition, a sign and a portent, a call to action. As far as I was concerned, she was nameless, and simple; as well-informed as she was charming. What did I care when, later, I discovered that she was a society dame, frequenting the palace of a princess, and possessing a name like any one else? She had been sent to me in the street where the butterflies were to inspire me with the will to put my plans into execution. Voicelessly she summoned me to work. Therefore—do you get on with your task, likewise!"

"How do you know that this is my work?" asked Andreas, tapping the book of poems. "You saw her only for a fleeting moment, and yet, what a stimulus she has been to you. But I have imbibed her very blood! You'll never guess what she said last night. She was leaning on this railing, pressing her knee against the balustrade, her silk dress aflutter in the wind; it was orange-coloured and clung to her lithe young body; tendrils of hair were gently caught by the breeze. Speaking very softly, she said: 'The swallows are coming north again. Though the road be long, they find their way unerringly. When they fly above a ship, there is a sound of rushing aloft as if fine steel wings were clashing one upon the other. How free they are! Free; and yet fate's hand is uplifted over them as it is over our heads. They are in the grip of fear, just as we ourselves are, as soon as one of their company shows signs of exhaustion. Half an hour more, a short half hour only, separates them from the island; their strength must last till then. One final sweep of the wings and they will reach their goal. It is will that drives them, will alone!'—Suddenly she began to sob. The paroxysm lasted but a minute while she was shaken by unseen forces. Then she dried her eyes and looked at me with a smile. After a while she laughed and, throwing her head back, pulled me towards her and kissed me, crying: 'Poet!'

"Believe me, Nikolai, at that moment she bade me farewell. Because of the daring mockery she was able to infuse into that one, perilous word, she had to leave me after uttering it. I was taken aback, and, since I am ever at a loss in such circumstances, all I found to say was: 'Are you hankering to join the flock, Diana? Do you want to go with the common herd across the waters of the lake?'—She laughed again, and as she lay lightly in my arms she said, with a complete change of voice and of manner as if her mood vacillated between coquetry and mystery: 'Perhaps, sometimes, why not? Among the herd, one is lost to sight!'"

Nikolai frowned, while with listless impatience he struck a light in spite of the fact that his cigarette was glowing cheerfully.

"Well, well, Poet, you can't hope to have things otherwise. Over the lake! Don't allow yourself to be misled by the dazzling lights of adventure. Many a promising lad has perished in the quest, to rue the day when he fell away from the right track. Diana was not mocking you when she called you poet; that is your true name. This little batch of poems is no more than a prelude. Remember the fine plans you dreamed of carrying out. When you are calmer, you must build upon her inspiration, and thus you will become reconciled to her flight."

Andreas faced his friend abruptly.

"What? Is this the same voice I once heard speaking to me from the shades of Tartarus? Reconciled? Is that all you have to say after a sublime experience? Was it not you who, just now, spoke of: 'A call to action'? I must get away."

Nikolai, who knew his friend's restless temperament from of old, who knew that the quiet days in love's garden were but an episode in the course of the ceaseless flow of turbulent waters, did not make direct answer, but merely asked: "Where do you intend to go?"

"On to the mainland! Away from my island! To active life! Into the fray!"

"Travel?"

"That's no more than play."

"To work in a factory?"

"That takes too long."

"Get into a ministerial post?"

"That would mean returning to Vienna which I left years ago. But I was wondering..."

"Well?"

"What about the diplomatic service?"

"In that career, too, you'll have to climb a ladder!"

"Maybe I'll climb ten rungs at a time right at the start!"

Nikolai said nothing, but he thought:

"Can that be the ideal aim of a poet? What has happened to the young people of today? They all want distraction, instead of concentrating on one activity. A hankering after adventures seems to fill them; even the strongest natures are led astray by dreams of power; the finest flower of Europe's young citizens is eagerly seeking for movement and ever more movement. Well, at any rate I've not been touched by the microbe!"

"I see you don't approve," said Andreas.

"Your best sonnet is of greater value than all your dreams of power and glory."

"Of greater value? To whom, pray?"

"To your own soul."

Nikolai, convinced that this evening would be a decisive one in their friendship, that they were here and now at the parting of the ways, which might sever them for many years, to bring them together again only after battles, and victories, and disappointments, rose from his chair, emptied his glass, reached out his hand to his friend, and said:

"It is late. I was up early this morning. I'll get along to bed."

But Andreas, in his passionate devotion, flung his arm round his friend's shoulders, and exclaimed:

"Don't give me up! Have confidence in my star."

Andreas lighted his candle and sought his own room, followed closely by Othello. The dog, who was always quick to understand changes in his master's life, realized that once more, as in former days, they were to live by themselves. Yet he was not happy at the prospect. He had not been jealous of Diana, as dogs are wont to be where a woman, and in especial where the beloved mistress of the master, is concerned. Each morning he had raised the latch of the bathroom door and had come to the bedside. Then, resting his forelegs on the coverlet at the foot, Ke had laid his massive head between them, near enough to sniff Diana's fragrance as she lay in her place next the wall. Thus would he remain, his earnest eyes never weary of looking at the young woman whom he allowed his master to house. He never attempted to fling himself across their bodies, well knowing that he would prove too heavy. Besides, a dog's proper place is at his master's feet, and Othello was not one to break the law.

Andreas guessed the Great Dane's thoughts, just as Othello guessed his master's. Without awaiting a sign, the dog took up his position on the white skin that served as bedside rug. He had never done this before. Andreas, for his part, flung himself half dressed on to the bed. He wished to avoid direct contact with the cool white pillow at his side. As he lay there gazing into the darkness, he seemed to hear a voice saying: "Te quiero!" The very words Diana had spoken to him at their first encounter that night of the masked ball! She had entered his life when taking part in a procession of masqueraders, in a fanciful get-up, sandals on her bare feet, a long yellow chiton flowing round her figure, a delicate crown of ivy in her wilful locks. The vision had floated past him as he sat on the steps heavy of heart and watchful. Then she had paused, had stepped out of the ranks, had flung her sun-kissed arm round his neck, and had said, her voice ringing like pure metal in his ear: "Io te quiero!" (I choose thee.)

That night they passed in an almost ceaseless dance together. Next day they found themselves in the Milan train, hastening northward. On the morrow they had reached the island.

Andreas roused himself. Had he not heard the closing of a door? She often went to shut the door leading on to the terrace.... "Othello, did you hear nothing? Where is Diana now?" The boyish eyes peered anxiously, almost defiantly, into the darkness. "Why? How could you mar the sweet harmony of our lives this way? Diana! Diana!"

His trembling lips breathed the name very softly. As he turned over on to the pillow where her head had lain, he suddenly drew back. Was not this the place where, in the cool of the night, he had leaned over the young body? Had he not, in the flickering candle-light, stroked the firm and satiny skin which had been bronzed by the sun; had his poet's hand not travelled over the deep bosom, on which the delicate breasts rose and fell as she breathed; had he not caressed those boyish hips so devoid of passionate desire—for always, until last night, she seemed rather to tolerate his hot wooing than to crave for it, seemed to be armed for battle rather than for the joys of the flesh.

Images of delight floated round the wearied youth, pictures of bliss he had experienced on this couch; and with all the power of a rich imagination he once again drew Diana into his arms.

Othello kept watch throughout the night, his great head resting on his crossed paws as he lay at his master's feet.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Wanted: lady with knowledge of many languages, Balkan tongues desirable, secretarial work. Call between 10 and 11. Second courtyard on left...."

Diana glanced down at her wrist-watch. Nine-thirty! She paid the bill for her breakfast, left the modest hotel where she had put up, and struck out through the park towards the centre of the town.

That morning when she had gone to Milan—was it only last Sunday?—she had been urged onward by an inner force which made her willingly look forward to undertaking almost any kind of work be it never so humdrum. She was tired of the south, and was filled with longing for a northern climate. Such restlessness often seized her towards May or June, and the north appealed to her at no other time of the year. She had clasped her hands and had examined them as if to sample their usefulness; her eyes had travelled up to the massive line of the Alps, that mysterious wall cutting her off from her second self in the north. Six years of untrammelled wandering had taught her to look upon chance happenings as the bridge of fate leading to the unknown.

"How long ago was it?" she asked herself that evening as she looked out of the window in the train. "Two years? No, it must be three since I took up a job because I needed to do so. Lack of money and the wish no longer to lead a quiet life always seem to coincide! Should I go to Paris? No, London would be better. But I went to Paris where I worked under Charpentier at the institute.... What extraordinary things developed out of that move! Of course the parting had been easier, Sidney was in good hands, and Father... Father..."

She laid her hot forehead against the cold window-pane and caught her own reflection in the glass. Suddenly she became aware of lights creeping by, slowly and stealthily when they were away there across the wide fields, and like a flash when they were near the line. "Other people's destinies are crossing my path through this transparent pane. Always these alien destinies, which I have not summoned, move athwart my eyes, and I am doomed, nay rather, I am blessed in being allowed to let them go by. Stars! I would that the starlight might once again delight my eyes...."

Diana looked up, but the sky was overcast. On reaching Milan the other day she found that her total cash amounted to fifteen hundred francs. One thousand she spent in buying underclothes, two hats, one evening gown, and a costume for day-time use. She was wearing the latter now, with a white blouse, a plain straw hat, and comfortable, low-heeled shoes. Neither jewellery nor flowers were there to relieve the Puritan simplicity of her toilet. But her efforts to assume the aspect of an ordinary office girl were unsuccessful. In the first place she did not trip along, or strut, or slouch; she just walked. Her carriage, too, betrayed her, for her head was well poised on the broad shoulders and her elastic body swayed rhythmically from the slender hips. She looked like one accustomed to much rowing and riding. Her arched brows gave her away, as did likewise her hands with their long, delicate fingers and the finely moulded wrists. Above all, her face denied her assumed profession. The bronzed profile was that of a young Sicilian, such as Antonello da Messina loved to portray. Everything in her belied the character she had endeavoured to suggest by means of clothes and her alias.

"This is a very fine park," she thought, "but the lawns should not have been fenced in, nor all the paths made into alley ways, nor every bush clipped into a round. How obsessed the north is with its dreams of the south! Fearing its own peculiarities it becomes a mere imitator, and tries to tame all that would fain be wild."

She turned into the central walk which ran in a perfectly straight line from entry to exit. Here the great town seemed inspired with the wish to hide its practical, everyday life behind luxuriant trees, while all the time the electric trams went screeching and roaring through the ancient forest. Diana sped on.

"Whenever I wake in this city I feel that it is in some small degree akin to me, that it responds to the northern half of my make-up. Did ever town spur one on to activity as this one does? Is London or New York so incorruptible? I am glad that I am going into its very heart. Here I shall be able to work just like other people; indeed I must! High time I began again...."

Diana had now been a week at her secretarial post. She had adopted a new name, determined to forget the past, determined to be an unknown unit in the metropolis and thus to avoid head-waggings and questions in regard to her changed circumstances. She was scared at the idea of repeating previous encounters on the same stage. Since she was entirely free from sentimentality, she fostered memories only when they could prove useful to her development. This time, she had resolved to bury them.

She sat in the little whitewashed room with its two doors always flung wide, while twenty voices could be heard clamouring simultaneously, the simplest sentence being uttered with the loudness characteristic of persons whose profession it is to be ever on the go. After a while she glanced up, and gazed at the patch of grey wall to be seen above the reflector which did its best to cast a little daylight into the dark office.

"It's one o'clock," she mused. "We should be coming from our swim. Andreas's bathing-wrap would fly open and he'd pick his way gingerly over the stones.... He never liked them! The Barbary doves used to fly out of our path and flutter overhead. Domenico would speak of the wind, and would tell us that the weather had set fair till the new moon.... Till the new moon, an eternity, two whole weeks! A fortnight of clear skies and sunshine and wind. When before did the days seem so long; when before had I ever wished them to be unending? What if Othello could trace me to this cell? ... He'd lay hold of our bald-headed editor who always comes singing into the office, and would shake him by the slack of the trousers! Only for a while, only for a little while I must hold out here...."

She set to work again. There were articles from Turkish newspapers to be translated, Serbian reports to run through, Greek pamphlets to be read. Everything had to be summarized as tersely as possible and at topmost speed. She found the task interesting, for she knew the countries well. Certain names would provoke her to laughter, for though they now stormed through a troubled Europe as signatures to telegrams, a year ago they were absolutely unknown save in the locality where their bearers dwelt; the names of petty lawyers, nervous young deputies, and the like. On the flowery island confronting Pallanza, she had dreamed away her days in blissful ignorance of events in the world without, events which her contemporaries in self-complacent optimism chose to call "historical."

"Fräulein Linke!"

Diana answered promptly.

"Yes, Herr Larisch."

"Have you any Belgrade left? We want another twenty lines of Belgrade stuff for tonight."

The owner of the voice now appeared in the doorway. The man was big and shapeless, wore his pince-nez astride a thick nose. His left hand was in his trouser pocket and was for ever fidgeting with the contents, while with his right he pulled the collar away from his neck as if to give himself more breathing space.

"Herr Mailuft has of course gone to sleep at the vital moment, and yet he's well paid and for a year and a half has had nothing to do but run up expenses! That comes of engaging literary men to do journalistic work. Do you know what the fellow did the day the prince was hunted out of Albania? He sent a long wire describing a sunset over the mountains of Epirus!"

Diana laughed. The speaker, who was delighted at her appreciation of his wit, continued:

"You may well laugh. They just sink into places others have prepared for them, and have no responsibilities. If their work is not done one day they can just as well do it the next. I wouldn't mind taking on a job like that.—How do you come to know all their mad tongues, Fräulein? Have you ever been there? A pretty sort of amusement. What are those people to us, I should like to know. It's the diplomats' fault when poor innocent nations are involved in such a crisis."

By now he had got into his stride, and had no difficulty in pursuing his discourse.

"The reason is obvious. Not until there is a parliamentary government which has assumed control over ministers of State and diplomatists, not until the responsibility of such persons to the duly elected representatives of the people has been enforced by a written constitution..."

"No disquisitions here, Larisch; that is the chief's prerogative. Here's the stuff for your evening edition, just count the words, I must see where it is best to break off...."

Larisch, crestfallen, withdrew to his own place in the neighbouring room, thus making way for the newcomer who stepped over to the writing-table where Diana was at work, and sat down opposite her. His mocking eyes twinkled at her from behind gold-rimmed spectacles, yet Diana could detect an underlying melancholy which may have been due to disappointment at lack of recognition for his talents. He looked at her placidly and kindly, folded his hands on the table, and said:

"Do you think Larisch is right?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued to hold forth in the way natural to those who have the gift of words and like to hear the sound of their own voices. "As if it were not thus in every country, as if, indeed, it were not highly desirable that the few should decide the fate of millions! As if, for instance, you, my good Larisch," he turned round and raised his voice, quite disregarding the fact that his words could be heard by the whole office, "as if you could sit there in peace and quiet were it not that our honoured father, the blessings of Allah be on him, pays you a monthly wage of nine hundred marks in beautiful blue bank-notes counted out to you by a grim-visaged Cerberus at the cash desk, not to mention pension insurance, Christmas bonuses, and all the rest...."

"Why are you inditing rhapsodies in terms of contracts?" cried the oily voice from the next room. "Besides, unless I am well paid for it, how can I sub-edit the precious material sent in by our worthy chief?" He modified his voice as he came in with the papers. "It's poor stuff again today. Not infrequently—what is it Horace says?—'dormitat Homerus'! 'Thoughts!' said Socrates. 'Thoughts, Gentlemen, if you please!' exclaimed Lassalle. A polished style is not enough to get us out of this coil. When I recall the happy days in which straightforward German was the fashion here! One had not then to overhaul every sentence in order to see whether Nietzsche might not have expressed the news-item more pithily. We're too refined nowadays, old chap...."

He suddenly cut short his eloquence. Scherer, the owner of the paper, stood on the threshold. The advent of this little god almighty before whom even the editor, according to Larisch's mythological hierarchy, was but as Mercury to Jupiter, had become so rare an occurrence that when he did appear his presence caused no small amount of perturbation. Scherer, the financier and head of the great publishing house, was still a comparatively young man. He was the son of the founder (God rest his soul) of this international journal; but there was no trace in him of the humble origin of his forbears, nor, indeed, could one detect any sign of degeneracy in him. He combined the maturity of a carefully trained successor with the reposeful qualities of the democrat of the second generation, and he clothed his whole being with so earnest a philosophical outlook that he was bound to attract the mistrust of every circle he came into contact with either in the realm of business or in the realm of thought.

The two male subordinates stood to attention as the big man entered, but Diana kept her seat and analysed his character by the mode of his entry. She looked him squarely in the face, undismayed by his prestige. His eyes were dark, and it seemed to her that they were out of place in their blond setting behind the horn spectacles. Or did they, perhaps, betoken a certain unrest in this head which seemed cast in metal, and over which an artificial constraint of silence had been imposed? Diana was quite unaware that she was gazing at him with as much concentration as a playgoer looking at an actor through opera glasses. The chief noticed her scrutiny, and thought:

"That's no ordinary secretary."

"Are you the one," he continued aloud, "who sent in this detailed statement, or, rather, this summary, yesterday?"

The two men withdrew, and closed the door with a great deal of noise as much as to say that they had not the slightest interest in what was to follow. Diana nodded. As she recognized her own handwriting the blood crept slowly upward into her face until she was blushing all over. Meanwhile, she was thinking:

"A metallic voice. I've no liking for tenors as a rule, but the voice suits the man...."

"It's very good, Fräulein..."

He waited for her to help him out with the name.

"Linke," said Diana, as if she had never been called anything else.

"Fräulein Linke, excellent. My name is Scherer. Were you ever in the Balkans? Correspondent?" He took the chair on the opposite side of the writing-table.

"I've not as yet done any newspaper work. I was travelling."

He looked at her more attentively, and thought:

"Proud. She says: 'Not as yet.' Avoids the word 'never'—which might serve her very well, for she must know that this first essay of hers has struck me very favourably."

Slowly, he set about questioning her, testing her:

"You were travelling?"

"Yes."

She threw the syllable into the air, raising her chin in the act and thus avoiding his scrutiny. The word rang forth with bell-like purity, shutting the door upon further questions; it verged on rebuff; was self-confident, full of a sense of responsibility, determined. A second or two passed while she felt his analytical gaze upon her. Then the clear-toned voice was saying;

"They told me that a woman had put this report together.... There's a good deal of noise here.... You are not as a matter of fact engaged to do editorial work. I'll find you an office over in the firm.... Will you step across with me?..."

They rose. Diana gathered her papers together. He did not attempt to help her. Arrived at the door, he made an almost imperceptible movement to allow her to pass out first.

The whole office was agog. The two eavesdroppers were immediately surrounded by an inquisitive crowd. It never entered any of their heads that Scherer had come to make gallant overtures—they knew him too well! Within their knowledge, there had never been the faintest rumour of such things in his connexion. What could he be after? Who was this new employee?

"What did he say?"—"What did she say?"—came from three or four typists simultaneously. Larisch answered evasively.

"Fish and find out, girls! Do you want a share of the good luck? You need only come to my department!"

"Your department? Oh, Herr Larisch!"

CHAPTER FIVE

It was still daylight as carriage after carriage drew up before the colonnade of the opera house. Although the beauty of this evening in May had called every one forth to enjoy the fresh air, the house was sold out. Diana had not thought of such a possibility, and was aggrieved, wellnigh humiliated, when she found herself unable to get in, and saw other women mounting the red carpeted stairway which she felt she should be treading in their stead. They were foes, making no effort to conceal their triumph! The sound of the call-bell irritated her; it seemed to go on interminably, summoning the audience to hurry. She gazed with longing eyes at the press of people entering the vestibule; then, slowly, she walked down the wide steps.

Home? The word sent a chill through her. She could not face going back defeated, to the little room which for two weeks now had served her as sleeping place.

She had spent every evening of the fortnight in solitude. It was her wont during such periods of vital change deliberately to impose seclusion upon herself. She had written to none of her friends, for she was saturated with a fatalistic sentiment of adventure which made her await developments. At night she would go for a walk along the water's edge; Sunday would be devoted to revisiting old favourites in the museums, old yet ever fresh as endowed with eternal youth; or, silently she would pursue her way along the streets, looking at new buildings. Then, again, the big shops and cafes would attract her critical eye, and she would study the present-day fashions and tastes. Such were her recreations. Her work in Scherer's office absorbed all her intellectual energies; and ambition, which ever acted as a spur to this woman, goaded her on to give of her best. Tonight, however, Carmen was to be played, and this was an opera which Diana could never bear to miss.

"Shut out! Here am I, not able to hear; and yet I belong to this tragedy far more vitally than do all those women who have only come to listen to the new singer. Shall I go for a drive? It would cost too much; besides it's too late, and my dress is all wrong!"

An open car drove up. A tall man in evening dress stepped out, flinging a black evening cloak over his arm. Diana was struck pleasantly by the gesture. She was likewise delighted with the look of the taxi, and moved forward to engage it. Suddenly she stopped, drew back a pace or two, and turned pale from mingled alarm and joy.

"Sidney!"

"Diana!"

The exclamations rang out almost simultaneously as brother and sister recognized one another. In three strides the young man was at her side, feeling rather embarrassed, and as if caught in the act of doing something he should not. He himself was at a loss to account for the feeling. He bent over her gloved hand, and asked with a smile:

"Are you startled?"

Yes, this was actually her brother. Those were his long, finely chiselled features, his slim, delicately moulded limbs, his fair, curly hair, which refused to submit to the discipline of a parting—much to the chagrin of this fashionably dressed young gentleman. How alike the two were! His skin, however, contrasted with hers in that it was of the tint of ivory, whereas hers was a golden brown. Her body too, as any one with an eye could guess in spite of her cloak and her gown, differed greatly from that of the frail, effeminate youth. If she displayed the physical vigour of a Tobias, he, on the contrary, was cut in the softer lines of the youthful Sebastian. For the moment, however, he was nothing but a slender young gentleman in evening dress.

Diana's face melted into an almost childlike laugh. She looked like a girl of seventeen. After years of being with persons of her own choice, she suddenly found herself in the company of one to whom she belonged through ties of kinship. Her proud nature was enchanted at the thought of being dependent for a moment upon this callow boy of nineteen whose senior she was by six years and upon whom she had always looked as a kind of son.

With the adaptability of lively natures, they soon recovered from their first surprise at the unexpected encounter, and, overcoming the innate reserve peculiar to them both, they asked one another a few pointed questions:

"Have you been here long?"

"A short while," was her answer.

"You wrote from Rome..."

"Did I?"

"Yes, a card with a pine tree on it and the words 'Via Appia' beneath."

"Where is Father?"

"In London, I fancy. I have not seen him since March."

"And you?"

"Oh, I," he paused for a moment, nonplussed. Then: "I'm going to the opera."

"There are no more tickets!"

"I've got a box."

"So well off?"

"I don't know. Did you think of going?"

"Are you alone?"

"Y—yes," he answered with some hesitancy.

"Andiamo," cried she, slipping her hand lightly through his arm. As they gaily ascended the steps she had recently come down in so disappointed a mood, she thought: "I've a brother. He's good-looking. He drove up in a taxi, through this town, on this evening, to the very opera I want to hear.... Life, O Life!"

The lights had been lowered. As Diana let fall her cloak, the orchestra struck up the first barbaric strains of the prelude. The sounds surged over her, submerging her. In two seconds she had completely forgotten her companion.

Sidney was deaf to the music. Withdrawn into a corner of the box, he sat obliquely behind Diana and contemplated her with an expression mature beyond his age. He had not seen her for three years. She had left London for Paris, in the middle of winter, and had disappeared. Had those been quiet days, he asked himself with the inner perturbation of a youth whose childhood had been an agitated one. She had been working in the British Museum Reading Room; every morning she had gone there, to a seat immediately on the left as you entered, beneath the huge glass dome. When he came to fetch her, she would take him to the galleries where the classical marbles were. Father would have tea with them at the little boarding-house, they'd chat together, the old man would pay the weekly bill and would give them some pocket money. Diana used to go out in the evening; he rarely knew who her companion was on these occasions.... She had no women friends, nor, indeed, had she ever had any. What could she be doing here? Was she having a good time? How lovely she looked in her green-and-white crêpe de chine dress! Mentally, he estimated its cost. Her arms are sunburned, she must have spent a long time in the country. He paused in his meditation, and blinked his eyes in the darkness. "All alone, without a ticket, at the opera.... And she is wearing a white camellia. Could this be a shield against love's attacks? In that case she must just have emerged from a passionate episode! Yes, that's what it is; and now she's in one of her ascetic periods. I could wager she was not on the look-out for any one. A romantic love affair ... somewhere away in the country.... Fairly long ... probably in the south ... the camellia for remembrance..."

The curtain went up on the chorus of young folk in the wide square of Seville. Diana, recovering from her absorption in the music and the darkness, turned her head towards her companion; her movement was deliberate, as if she hoped it would give her once again the pleasurable surprise of a few minutes ago. She liked him immensely, and touched his foot softly with the point of her slipper:

"Sidney! How tall you have grown! Ti amo!"

He whispered back:

"Diana, I'm ever so proud of you. Why shouldn't I... Why can't you be my sweetheart?"

"You're not old enough!"

Carmen's motif was being played; Carmen herself appeared. Diana's eyes dilated, she raised her brows so high that her forehead was wrinkled while with her right hand she seized the edge of the box as if to steady herself. Always when Carmen's voice fell on her ear, when the tragically bold glance shot across the footlights, Diana felt a premonitory flutter at her heart, a prophetic warning of something still far away, hidden in the night of the future. When, however, Carmen made her advances and withdrew again, when at one moment she was unrestrained and at another reserved, when she flung her sweet, mad song at the officer's head, and with an almost sexual bravado made as if to draw the young man into her arms, Diana relaxed her hold, sank back on her chair, and drew her wrap about her shoulders. She seemed to be the prey of a mood which her brother could not fathom.

The lights went up, and Diana hardly had time to pull herself together before the door of the box was thrown open and an officer came in. He brought his heels smartly together on the threshold, and then advanced to kiss Diana's hand. Diana sat quietly for a moment recovering from her surprise.

"You, Major!" she said at last.

"My presence here is far less surprising than yours, for I'm an habitué of the opera and have searched its seats in vain for a sight of you for three years now."

"My brother," said Diana who had been quick to observe her visitor's uneasy glance towards the corner where Sidney had ensconced himself.

"Oh, I beg your pardon.... Had I not the pleasure once...?" The words fell heavily like great drops of rain before a storm. Indeed, one could almost fancy that the growl of thunder was already in the air. "At that time I did not know," the officer continued cautiously, for he hardly believed in the kinship between the two, "that this lady was your sister...."

"I, too, had no idea that you had already met a member of my family," interposed the young man with subtle irony.

Diana thought:

"Our two terriers, Jack and Jill, used to snarl at one another in exactly the same way over their feeding bowl in the old days in London!"

She turned to the major: "Won't you stay?"

"With pleasure, if I may," he answered, looking a rather arrogant inquiry at Sidney.

"I shall be delighted, too. I am my sister's guest."

As the lights went out, the major took his place so close to Diana's side that he could whisper in her ear, very softly, hardly moving his lips as he spoke:

"You are simply wonderful!"

"Thanks."

"I've always been on the look-out for you. I knew that some day or other you'd return."

"And here I am."

"But you never wrote a line...."

"I could not. It had to be one thing or the other.— Still suffering from jealousy?"

"Horribly!"

"It really is my brother."

"Swear?"

"On your sword," she breathed, placing her hand on the hilt of his weapon as it thrust forward among the folds of her dress.

"Diana," he urged, pressing closer.

"No!"

Ostentatiously she drew away from him, and turned towards Sidney. The latter had heard the whispered exchange of words and had been watching the couple, wondering where he had seen the man before. Slowly came the remembrance of a somewhat shady night club. Yes, it was there they had met; the officer was in mufti, the encounter lasted no more than a few seconds. Could the man really have been an intimate of Diana's. Sisters should be sexless!

The major continued to whisper in Diana's ear, until the great scene in the second act, where Carmen sings her most seductive song, compelled him to silence. Then all she heard at her side was the heavy breathing of a man who was exercising fierce control over himself. But even this sound faded from the circle of her perceptions when the toreador embarked upon his triumphant pæan. She closed her eyes in the sensuous enjoyment of the final F. It seemed to her at that moment as if rushing wings drew near, to fold her in an embrace. Present experiences became less real to her than the premonitory murmur of the unknown future.

During the interval, Diana had made for the balcony with her two companions in order to enjoy a breath of fresh air, for the late spring weather was mild and the opera house felt hot and stuffy. As the trio strolled along, the major saluted a friend whom Diana recognized as Scherer, her chief. She was aware that the latter turned to look after her, and she hurried out on to the balcony. She was not a little annoyed at the encounter. The next thing would be that the publisher would question the major as to her identity, and then it would be all up with her incognito. This might cost her her employer's confidence which, during the week she had been working directly under him, she had won as much by her behaviour as by the excellence of her work.

The warm evening air was wafted up to them as they leaned upon the balustrade. The breeze caressed Diana's bare shoulders and arms so that she shivered slightly. She drew her wrap closer about her. The women as they walked to and fro were obviously living in the atmosphere of Seville; they coquetted with fans, flaunted their laces, displayed their uncomprehended passions in such a way as would have shocked their worthy burgher souls had they been consciously aware of what they were doing. The voluptuousness of the music and the balminess of the air were responsible for lingering touch of hand on hand as the men helped the ladies with cloak or shawl. But the major, whose erotic temperament was never allowed to encroach upon his courtesy and formal politeness, was careful to avoid any contact with Diana.

Now the opera pursued its course, ominous, poignant. As Carmen, laying out the cards, pronounced the word of doom, Diana shuddered. It seemed to her that all of a sudden she was quite alone, no longer young, cut off from liberty. She was annoyed at the meeting of these two men, a meeting which had at first seemed to her so piquant. Yet she could not leave the house until once again she had drunk the intoxicating rhythm of the toreador music; had seen the brilliant sunlight illuminating the bull ring; had relished to the full the medley of horses, soldiers, flags; had thrilled responsively to the hymn of triumph and the glamour of the bloodthirsty sport. Amid all the noise and brilliancy, she had been snatched away into another realm by the exquisite tenderness of Micaela's appeal....

At last the curtain fell on the final act. Clapping of hands, bows before the footlights, a rush to the exits. All were still under the spell of the music and the drama; all were silent; all seemed for the moment to be rudderless, adrift.

As the three friends pressed forward in the crowd, their movements were closely followed by Scherer. For a week now he had had this amazing woman under observation, and the more he was tempted to utilize her for his purposes, the more he was struck with the qualities chance happenings revealed. He had noticed the meeting in the box, had instantly recognized the woman as Diana and the officer as an old acquaintance; the younger man was unknown to him. Their gestures and general behaviour showed the trio to hail from cultured circles; but he was puzzled as to the relationship of one to the other.

"I wonder how they are going to spend the remainder of the evening," he mused. "To which of those men does she belong?"

The question continued to occupy his mind for the rest of the night. He followed them into one of the larger restaurants, and engaged a table near the wall whence he could watch them unobserved.

After the second glass of Chambertin, the spirits of the three rose. It was as if they had thrown off a load. The major began to feel that this brother of Diana's was not in his way, after all; while Sidney saw that the officer was a gentleman although their first encounter had taken place in so dubious a spot. Both men placed implicit faith in Diana, and she for her part was able by her tactful management to bring the two to a better understanding.

"Sidney, do you remember where we last met?"

"Yes, in London."

"Whereabouts?"

"In the British Museum, before the Assyrian fresco with the lion. You were showing me around. I was keen to learn. Three times a week for at least two months...."

"Do you still draw?..."

"Occasionally."

"Will you show me some of your work?..."

"Any time you please!"

"Have you tried your hand at a portrait of your sister yet?" asked the major.

"Not as far as I can remember."

"Oh, but you did," cried Diana, laughing, "you made a sketch of me once at Brighton when I was wearing that lilac bathing cloak." Then, suddenly: "Oh, how I long for the sea! I want to go south, to Athens! Not just now, later on. I know south-eastern Europe, and nearly half the East, but I've never been to Athens, the only place that really matters. I like all that far better than your Assyrian lions!"

"Isn't it in Athens that one sees those riders?" asked the major, his voice suddenly assuming a tone of genuine inquiry. "You know, the riders you once showed me a cast of?"

Diana looked at him with lively comprehension as she replied:

"Yes, the riders are to be seen there."

Sidney thought:

"I wonder what memories the riders bring back to them?"

The major thought:

"How mad we were that day in Mecklenburg... I locked the garden gates ... it was early morning ... and I sat her naked on the Irish stallion ... bareback, like the Grecian riders in the museum.... Will she ever be mine again?"

Diana thought:

"I rode in the sunlight, naked, and I felt the quivering sides of the beast against my thighs.... It was of a chestnut colour, just like a nut freshly taken from the husk. We were like children together, he and I. How long ago those days seem to me now."

At last she roused herself to ask:

"So you are in the garrison here?"

"I'm on the general staff," he said testily, in an endeavour to hide the turmoil within. A pause. Then: "At that time, the last time I had the good luck to meet you—exactly three years ago—you were kind enough to suggest that we might meet again...."

"Yes, we did speak of the matter," answered Diana airily, hoping to quell his excitement; for she saw while he was speaking that he winced at the recollection of all he had made her suffer through his jealousy and his pride, of all that had led to the final parting.

Her tone drew a look of gratitude from him, which Sidney was quick to intercept. The young man rose, trying to find an excuse for leaving them alone together.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, "there's old Heinz over there...."

He was away for a quarter of an hour, and amused himself by sketching a caricature of the cloakroom attendant.

The officer seized his opportunity.

"Diana," he cried, taking her hand and covering it with kisses, "I have you to thank for what I have become. At the time of our parting, I hated you, yes, hated you. I could not bear you to look at any one else.... But when you had gone I drew a line—please don't laugh, I have not given up love, but I no longer devote all my time to love. I started studying seriously, and in two years I got promoted to the general staff. In the ordinary course I could not have gone that far in less than five years, and only then by a fluke. Meanwhile I've been devoting my leisure to opera—not just the ballet—museums, exhibitions, books of travel." Suddenly he found he could speak in lighter vein again as he exclaimed: "I actually read, yes, read: a novelty in my family. My forefathers away there in the churchyard at home would turn in their graves if they could see me!"

Diana closed her eyes, listening as her friend paid her this belated homage, and tried to conceal his emotion under cover of a joke. When he ceased speaking, she lifted her glass, and, with a charming and dignified mien, toasted him thus:

"Here's to the golden laurel leaf on your red collar!"

He embraced her in his glance and raised his glass to clink with hers, his hand trembling as he did so.

"How long shall we be alone? I do so much want to tell you what I've been planning these three years past.—Diana, I'm sorry to make you such a request in all this racket, but won't you share with me what remains of my life?"

Her face stiffened; she looked thirty years old at least as she put her glass down, and said softly:

"Never try to repeat things, my friend. Do you want the pleasant things you have just been saying to lose their flavour? Is not this moment of greater value than all the remainder of your life, which may prove a hollow sham if we do what you propose? Do not try to tame the falcon. Let me fly in a free sky."

She shot a glowing look at him, but as she emptied her glass her companion saw that her eyes were moist with tears.

Sidney came back at this moment. Diana rose, saying:

"It is late. Good-bye. Please do not come with me."

Both men protested; but Diana, wearied of the male's everlasting suspicion of women, beckoned them both towards her and flashed:

"Can't you trust me to go home by myself?"

She got into a taxi, and even as it was starting Scherer's big bulk appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. He had witnessed their farewells, and was seeking a taxi wherein to follow her and find out what was her next move. The major, who on no account wanted to lose her trail, bade Sidney a hasty good-night, and jumped into another taxi which was drifting along across the street. Sidney, however, understood the officer's manœuvre. He felt curious as to his sister's relations with the major and in his turn hailed a taxi.

In the busier parts of the town the procession was not very noticeable, but as soon as Diana's cab reached the quiet neighbourhood where she lived it was evident that she was being followed by three vehicles in fairly close formation.... When her driver stopped in front of her door, the others drew up likewise. Three heads were cautiously poked out of three windows. Scherer at once knew who the other two men were, but they were puzzled as to his identity.

As Diana stepped up to the front door she took the whole comedy in at a glance, and laughed. She laughed again when she reached her room:

"I'll never succeed in making men believe that I am a virtuous woman!"

CHAPTER SIX

Scherer was determined to find out all about her. He knew that Paula Linke was not her real name, and the information bureau to which he applied was soon able to give him further particulars. Her father was a Pole by birth, had been naturalized a German, and had been vice-consul in Macedonia some twenty years ago. Rumour had it that he was a merchant and a dealer in furs. But according to another report he was a savant with private means, and had spent much of his time in exploring out-of-the-way parts of the world. He was now living in England. Diana herself had recently come from Italy, had been engaged in manifold activities, had worked in various institutions, had been a librarian. Her movements were even traced to a riding school in Munich where she had apparently given lessons in horsemanship. Three years ago she had been in this very town for a few months in the company of a certain countess, had been entertained by the Automobile Club, had been a competitor at the regatta, and was supposed to have spent one summer at a country house in Masuria.

Scherer's experience as a man of business had taught him that inquiry agents, when stumped for accurate information, are wont to spin fairy tales. He therefore chose to believe about half of this budget, and it was enough for him to know that the report contained nothing scandalous. As man of the world he exercised the utmost care in regard to his private life, avoiding intimacy with persons whose acquaintance was thrust upon him, and who he considered might be useful to him. He felt amply rewarded when his affairs in this field ran smoothly. On the other hand, as financier, he penetrated into alcoves, private clubs, and bedchambers, for he knew that more money was lost in such places than on the Stock Exchange.

He had been led to make his inquiries because he was possessed of the idea of utilizing Diana's services for a special mission, a mission for which her qualities made her particularly suitable. Every day brought him fresh surprises as to her abilities. He would constantly put her to new tests, would engage her in discussion of the political issues predominant in the countries they were at the moment chiefly concerned with; would ask questions whose answers he himself knew perfectly well; gave answers which he knew to be incorrect. He did not put these tests in any spirit of mockery; indeed, his respect for this woman's intelligence grew from day to day.

At the same time, both were careful to preserve the integrity of their business footing, and their precautions in this were all the greater in proportion as his information assumed a more confidential character. Scherer was pleased to note her aloofness, was delighted with the way in which she deliberately closed all the avenues to a more intimate approach. Yet as man of the world he could not ignore the investigatory gaze of this woman who concealed her inner self behind a veil of silence, while probing him to the core. It was her capacity for judging men and things (a capacity which he felt her exercising in regard to himself with just as fine a penetration as in respect of other personalities) which led him to consolidate his plans.

Yet this man who was bold enough to play with fate, scarcely realized that the magnetic spell of a woman was driving him, all unconscious, into ventures which, though they were not in Eros's realm, might prove no less hazardous in other fields than love.

Diana guessed his plans. She knew that he had big financial interests in the East. So much she had gathered from reports, from letters dealing with company and banking concerns, about which she was occasionally consulted—not always, of course, for she was not Scherer's secretary. "He'll need me down there," she thought, "perhaps he's going to send me...." When, after a while, she realized that he could not dispense with her services, she slipped him into the general machinery of her existence, and started to reckon upon him as a factor in her life, doing so all the more coolly seeing that she was not stirred by him as a man. The days following that night of the opera flowed peacefully by. When she entered her room late on the following day, she found a bunch of white carnations awaiting her. Despite the ill success of his advances, the major could not refrain from celebrating this happy meeting by sending her the loveliest flowers he could find. He was also influenced in his choice by the recollection of all that similar white carnations had meant to him one winter day in a snow-storm. At that time they had been her favourite flowers. His note ran:

"Don't be angry with me. Require of me that I await a sign from you, but do not ask me to take you at your word, for that would rob me of all hope of renewing the most beautiful days of my life. You have fresh conquests to record, the homage of young men and old in the East and in the West. I am turning grey, you saw as much quite clearly when I bent to kiss your lovely hand and that infernal lamp blazed down on me. You are more blooming than ever. I have asked you to share my life and my name. True, my request was bluntly made; I am nothing but a soldier. You have refused me. But I beg you to remember that I shall always look upon myself as your friend. I trust you to give me a chance to be of use to you. Believe me, in any danger that may arise, your unchangeable

"FELIX."

To which she replied:

"Your white carnations are as lovely today as those you gave me years ago. Thank you. I may be leaving before long. It would be nice to take a drive somewhere together. You will be my first thought if ever danger arises.

"DIANA."

As she slipped the note into its envelope and addressed it to him in his new rank, she thought of all the talks they had enjoyed together, talks which had lured him from his humdrum regimental occupations to put his gifts to finer uses, talks which had plucked him from the morass of stereotyped adventures, and, by stimulating his ambition, had led him to more intellectual spheres of activity. "——, Major on the General Staff." Surely that was better than an order, a prize-cup for good horsemanship, or the daily billet-doux in the scented envelope.

Diana loathed the idea of being a "general purveyor of happiness." For her, kindness was not a law unto itself, a regulative principle residing freely within her. Nay, rather, was it apprehended in a lively understanding of things, and was, therefore, easier to lavish upon animals and plants than upon mankind, for in the initial stages of her acquaintance with human beings her combative instinct was invariably aroused. Yet she had ever an urgent inclination towards spurring on to the utmost the individuals with whom she came into contact, and to this task she devoted herself with all the powers of a lively imagination, cultivating it as a fine art.

She glanced from the letter to the flowers and back. Then she smiled as she pondered the reasons for her brother's silence, for he had made no move. Sidney was of an undemonstrative temperament, in absolute contrast to the open-hearted candour of the major. This quality in her brother was an echo of her own character; like her, he was reluctant to show off his knowledge, preferred to withhold at least a portion for his own intimate use, to have reserves in his battle with the world. She knew that he, too, enjoyed observing others while himself remaining unobserved. These cogitations aroused a half-maternal sense of responsibility for Sidney, a feeling that had slumbered in her heart for years since she had first realized all the peril that life held for a man of his disposition. Thinking of him made her wish to find him.

"He must belong to some club or other," she mused. "He could not live without his club! There are four hundred clubs in the telephone book, I'll have to engage a messenger boy to find out the one Sidney belongs to...."

Her inquiry was not successful, and she was left troubled in her mind; for his appearance the other night, his handsome face, his elegance, showed him to be a man of leisure and of means. This seemed to her, in view of his youth, to be full of dangerous possibilities. She must, indeed, find his whereabouts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The dinner was nearing its end. Among the little party of five men whom the old count had invited to dine with him at the Political Club, the minister for foreign affairs was obviously the guest of honour. True the table was a round one, chosen specially in order to obviate any question of precedence. Yet it was impossible to avoid the impression that the man tucked away in the corner was really the presiding genius. From his place he could keep his eyes on the remainder of the room. The host occupied the seat on the left of the minister. Since he was of a genial disposition, quite innocuous, and above all was no longer regarded as a possible competitor, the younger aspirants to power were glad of his company, for they ran no risk of being compromised, while at the same time they could flaunt a halo of disinterestedness.

To the left of the host sat a naval commander whose youthful face was surmounted by the bald dome of his head. The effect was all the more ludicrous because the sun and the sea air had tanned the face a deep mahogany, while above the line of his cap the skin was shiny and very white. Furthermore, the man was clean-shaven, so that his head gave the effect of an anatomical specimen. The commander was flanked by Diana's friend the major, whose whole countenance was in vivid contrast to that of his neighbour, the two men thus admirably illustrating in their persons the perennial antagonism between the naval and the military arms.

The fourth guest was a professor of economics whose lively bearing and mischievous doctrinairism showed him to be a man of the old school. With the typical arrogance of the learned, he looked down on the man of war to his right, and devoted himself exclusively to his left-hand neighbour. This was Scherer, whom the old count had invited that he and the minister might become acquainted.

When dessert had been placed on the table, the men pushed back their chairs and sat more comfortably. Scherer and the minister entered into close conversation. Thereupon, the other four instinctively drew together for a talk. Scherer sat quietly listening while his neighbour spoke; occasionally he would pull his short, fair moustache, but he said very little. The minister leaned heavily upon the arm of his chair; he was serious of mien, and gazed inquiringly at his companion. It was obvious that the task in hand was not the capture of the statesman, but, rather, that the financier and publisher was the quarry of the evening.

Yet the statesman did not abate by one jot or tittle the arrogant tone that was habitual to him. He was ten years Scherer's senior, it is true, was engaged in a struggle, and was filled with misgivings in regard to the twofold profession of his interlocutor. All this combined to make his subterranean fires glow the brighter, so that his rather heavy countenance was illuminated and made more vivacious by the fight. His face was swarthy and was framed in grizzled hair; his dark eyes were rendered preternaturally large by the huge convex glasses of his spectacles which gave him an unearthly fixation of gaze. Scherer, on the other hand, wore a pince-nez whose elegant poise merely served to enhance the fine line of his features.

"Do you really trust these orientals?" asked the minister softly and yet with precision, for he was coming to the kernel of the matter under discussion.

"There are as many varieties among the peoples of the East as among us westerners," answered Scherer, his metallic voice, as always, ringing true.

The statesman was somewhat irritated by an answer whose banality revealed a desire on Scherer's part to evade the issue. For a moment or two, he toyed with his fruit knife; then, speaking with deliberation:

"I have in mind the present situation. Should we base the whole of our colonial development on the good will of a nation whose resolves may change at any moment, whose French culture will require more than a generation to efface, and whose geographical position lays it open to the advances of any chance comer? The door over there has been flung wide. Is it right that I should order Turkish coffee to be served me in that room when I am not sure whether before I reach it, another member of this club may not bribe the manager to have the doors shut and may not commandeer all the coffee for his own use?"

"Did I hear the delicious words, Turkish coffee?" put in the professor, hoping thereby to bring both conversations to an end. "How would it be to stretch our legs a trifle after the solemn enjoyment of our repast? Pardon me, Count..."

But already the six chairs had been pushed back, and the men made for the stairs, walking in couples, the professor arm-in-arm with the count, while the statesman and Scherer brought up the rear, halting from time to time in order to emphasize some particular point and thereby holding up the remainder of the party, for the count was loath to get separated from his guests. Scherer, who was better acquainted with the East than was his companion, and who had come to realize that the statesman's ethnological arguments were based upon personal distrust of specific personages, now took up his parable from this side. He put a direct question:

"You feel that the present crisis confirms your outlook—justifies a policy that would aim at breaking all the engagements entered into by persons on the spot?"

The other answered with customary evasiveness:

"I perceive the danger of allowing oneself to place too much trust in..."

"And would, therefore, advise against further investment in the railway shares?"

But the minister was not to be coerced into plain speaking, and answered with studied ambiguity:

"I would seek to gain time and to make a cautious retreat."

The minister's main object tonight was to bring the newspaper magnate to an acceptance of his Balkan policy by giving the financier a hint as to the possible course of affairs. Scherer guessed the import of the manœuvre. He was well aware that the minister opposed the political trend towards expansion in the East, and was, in addition, devoured with a jealous suspicion of the ambassador at the centre of present interest. Cautiously avoiding these essential issues, Scherer gazed down at the points of his patent-leather shoes, and asked unconcernedly:

"Your dispatches bring better news today?"

"Dispatches, indeed," fumed the minister. "There are certain people who are unteachable! Twelve hours before the outbreak of hostilities they will still be assuring you of the love these nations feel towards you."

"It is possible that those who are commissioned to look after our interests on the spot do not enjoy your full confidence?"

"Have you implicit confidence in your correspondents, Herr Scherer?"

Scherer gave a short laugh.

"No! But..."

The moment had come when the minister could no longer postpone the decisive question. He assumed the attitude of a fencer about to thrust, an attitude he invariably adopted when dealing with the Opposition in the Lower House, and asked coldly:

"Do you believe in the unerring judgment of our ambassador out there?"

Scherer looked tranquilly into his companion's owl-like eyes, and drawled:

"Unerring? He seems to me a pleasant person. No one is infallible. Surely you don't expect all our ambassadors to be men of genius?"

There was a challenging note in this question, for the financier could certainly not be ignorant of the antipathy the two men felt for one another. The minister, therefore, broke off the conversation by stepping smartly forward to join the rest of the company, while he said loud enough for all to hear:

"I sincerely trust you are right, Herr Scherer, were it only in the interests of the State."

"Have you brought him to heel, Sir," asked the professor jovially. "A marvellous man, this Scherer," continued he, "puts his money in railways that don't work, publishes newspapers in which the reports are as false as the type is heavy, with it all is a European celebrity, and he himself does not know if he owes his notoriety to his wealth or his wit!"

"You are merry, worthy privy councillor," said Scherer good-humouredly. He towered head and shoulders above the professor and was therefore able to lay his hand condescendingly upon the smaller man's shoulder. Every one realized that he was revenging himself for the professor's sally by addressing him with a title the authorities were never likely to bestow. But the little man did not put himself about to correct the error. He merely exclaimed:

"Call me 'colleague,' then at least for a minute I can rejoice in the illusion of sharing your millions!"

"And I the delight of sharing a professorship," laughed Scherer, turning on his heel.

"What a disagreeable person," muttered the commander, wagging his head, and looking coldly at the offending professor.

"Oh, that's a mere nothing," interposed the major. "I've heard the creature lecture at the Colonial Society. He let drop one insult after the other. And there were a number of foreign diplomats present as guests!"

"Men like that do us a lot of harm abroad," retorted the naval officer. "It's by them that our nation is judged."

The party moved on up the stairs, and presently broke up. Scherer and the two officers walked down the street together.

"Do you know these lands?" asked Scherer, addressing himself to his naval friend for the first time that evening.

"Very little. We seafaring men are restricted to the coasts. There's seldom an opportunity to get away inland."

"Which one of us three knows those countries from the inside? I was recently putting the same question to one of our experts in eastern affairs. Oriental politics were supposed to be his speciality. Three times had he been along the caravan route from Konia to Aleppo, had visited Monastir, had gone to see the temples in the Peloponnesus. Each expedition had lasted three weeks. I'll wager that you know more about those places than he does, Commander," said Scherer with a laugh.

"I really know practically nothing. True, my ship was stationed three years in those waters, but one picks up so little trustworthy information."

Scherer gave him an appreciative look.

"Unfortunately our writers fail to realize that! Do you happen to know our ambassador?"

"Slightly, very slightly."

"Shall I seem indiscreet if I ask whether you think he's the right man for the job?"

"The only man!" exclaimed the commander with an emphasis which in any one else might have seemed exaggerated.

For a while, they walked along in silence, each deep in his own thoughts, the naval officer gazing straight ahead of him, while Scherer's eyes were cast on the pavement.

"He must be an interesting fellow," murmured the major, amid the prevailing silence.

"Very," came deliberately from the commander.

They had reached the street which led to his quarters. He drew himself up, bade good-night, and went on his way.

Scherer and the major continued their stroll. They, too, had hardly had a word with one another. Since the night at the opera, the major had learned of Diana's connexion with the publisher, and had been waiting all the evening for the chance of a talk. They often did not meet for months at a time. Scherer, too, was eager to bring the conversation round to Diana. He wanted his own view of her confirmed by some one whose opinion he respected, and he knew by the major's bearing towards her the other evening, that the soldier was to be trusted. And yet he felt a certain misgiving, for he was a man of the world, and, with such, a lack of confidence in others' integrity is habitual.

"A man of sterling worth, that," said Scherer, nodding his head in the direction of their departing friend. He was inclined, when speaking of men he knew but slightly, to use vaguely pompous expressions of commendation.

"Very pleasant, indeed," replied the major. "Very pleasant, and unassuming. A delightful contrast to most men in his profession."

Scherer smiled.

"You army men always underestimate the navy."

"Pardon me, it's finance that overestimates the navy," corrected the major.

Scherer was delighted with the answer. It seemed to him courageous, penetrating, courteous, and, in addition, perfectly true.

"Would not you like to go away down there?"

"Yes, but how?"

"For instance, as military attaché?"

"Eckersberg is firm in the saddle!"

Scherer calculated that no more than a hundred paces or so remained of their way together. He therefore gave a turn to the conversation, saying:

"Those are certainly very interesting countries, but so few of our people know anything about them. I've a lady at my office, an extraordinarily intelligent woman, who really knows quite a lot."

"Ah," thought the major.

"As a matter of fact you know her, I fancy. Were you not in her company at the opera the other night?"

The major noticed how careful his companion was not to mention her name, and, following suit, he replied:

"Yes, that's right. We met after several years, and she told me she was working for you."

"You knew one another some time ago," said Scherer in so toneless a voice that it would seem he meant the words to hang suspended in the air.

The major thought: "It won't do her any harm if her employer knows that she had good connexions in the past...." Aloud he said:

"She was living at the time..."

"At the 'Bristol,'" put in the other calmly, apparently wishing to spare the major from giving too intimate details. Then suddenly changing his manner: "I hope you won't think me impertinent if I ask you whether in those days she was as extraordinarily gifted, as well-informed..."

The major felt a glow of sympathy for the speaker as these words fell upon the night air. Memories crowded upon him. He remembered the influence she had exercised over his career, and, crushing back the feeling of jealousy which involuntarily rose within him, he thought only of the use he could be in helping Diana forward in her new sphere of life.

"Well-informed? Gifted? Certainly—so far as I could learn during rides and at the parties where I met the young lady." Words failed him. "Yes—she is really the—the most amazing creature I have—I have ever met among women!"

Scherer felt warmly towards his companion, for the embarrassment with which the words were spoken betrayed everything that the speaker wanted to keep secret. The major must in his youth have been a man with a good deal of experience of women! Scherer's surmises were thus doubly confirmed. He was silent for a while. Then:

"Wasn't there a young man of the party, very like her in appearance?..."

"Her brother."

"Ah, I thought as much. Let's sec, what was his name?" The question was put very tentatively.

"I did not quite catch his name. I fancy he must be her stepbrother."

Scherer thought:

"He just says that in order to shield her. He is very much in love with her."

A few hours later, by the time he reached home, his mind was made up. The place was very quiet. He entered his study, a dignified apartment from whose four sides the books looked at him in solemn greeting. Works of art were few in number, and no woman's face smiled down on this man in early middle-age as he took a seat at the writing-table. Great undertakings, far exceeding in scope the newspaper he had inherited from his father, had been planned in this room. Financial schemes with political aims had been thought out between these walls. During the long summer nights, Scherer, thinker though he was, had given free rein to feeling. Never, however, had he permitted a woman's hand to tamper with his work, never had he asked a woman her advice. He had not even consulted his male friends if a difficulty arose. Today, for the first time, he was going to venture the hazard.

He looked up dates in his calendar. The day after tomorrow was free. He addressed an envelope to: "Fräulein Paula Linke, Kleins Hotel." But on the enclosed visiting card he wrote: "... requests the honour of Fräulein Diana de Wassilko's company to dinner on Wednesday at 8 p.m."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Andreas to Nikolai.

"... Can it really be only three weeks since we sat on the terrace together under the lampions overlooking the lake, and I longed to get away from the beloved island that I might be among the lights along the shore? Was it not many months ago that you conjured me to be faithful to my art, which I was in the mood to consign to hell-fire?

"Now I feel that you were right, and I also feel that some day truth will return to me. For, just as I had to overcome the despair I experienced when I was sixteen because my first poem when written down did not equal the one I had composed in my head, so today, a decade later, I hope to learn how to travel along new ways, how to appreciate pauses, before I stand on the heights from which I may bring my influence to bear upon reality, whence I may possibly even master and dominate reality.

"My new plans make me feel more estranged than ever from my homeland. Was Vienna as tedious a place to live in when I was a boy? Was it always as odd, as unaccommodating a town as it seems to me now? Or was I unaware of its peculiarities merely because I was in daily contact with it, though ignoring its mechanism? True, I lived in a world apart, a world of dreams.... Be all this as it may, I have been promised many things these days, have made an advance in one direction and another, have gained the patronage of a sometime minister, a man on the spot has no objection to—but—all the same—by and by—and so on!

"I have been advised by a person of ability not to start my career in the antechamber of the chief. 'There,' he said, 'you will be given ample time to study the fine frescoes on the ceiling, and to learn the difference between the rococo style of Fischer von Erlach and that of Master Hildebrandt—but you will not get any farther along your chosen road! Item: frequent society drawing-rooms, or, since this is the month of June, go to as many garden parties as possible.'

"I am again mixing with women, and I may have the delicate hand of some charming countess or other to thank for finding myself cutting a figure in farther Asian or South African diplomatic circles! But my experiences this spring have supersaturated me so far as women are concerned. I cannot help making comparisons, and all the while I feel I am behaving odiously to the other members of the fair sex.

"I have also lost the power of appreciating my fellow poets. Ever since my wish to throw myself into the life of the world became a reality, I have felt alienated from the world of our poets. Indeed, my inborn veneration for the older poets has been shaken.

"Nikolai! When my last hour comes, I do not wish to be faced with fifty volumes of my Works; I would have before my eyes the vision of fifty different countries, of treaties whereby I had helped to bring great nations into friendlier touch one with another, of wars I had had a share in initiating, of perils which had lured me to take the first steps towards an unknown foe, of alliances which had led to the annihilation of millions! Do not be impatient with me, Nikolai; I must be allowed to let my fancy roam while I am still young.

"I had a strange experience this morning.

"Othello and I were walking in the Belvedere Park. The clocks had just struck nine. A few nursemaids with perambulators and some old men were the only other strollers. I entered the left hand of the two walks which lead straight up to the palace. I had reached the top of the steps at the end when I saw a couple coming from the palace towards me. As in a dream I recognized the lady as Baroness F. She is a woman in the middle forties, the mother of several grown-up daughters. But the baroness was soon wiped out of the field of my vision, for the young man at her side (can you believe it?) was the image of Diana, indeed he was so like her that I fancied it must be she disguised as a boy: her very features, her slim figure, her own familiar way of tossing her head! He was laughing and was playing with his walking stick, which he tapped against his white flannel trousers.

"My heart stopped beating: for a moment I feared I was going to faint. But I soon pulled myself together. He had removed his hat in order to enjoy the cool morning air, and now I saw that his countenance was pale, white, almost deathlike in its pallor. Diana had never been like that. As he came nearer, his face was hidden from me, for he had caught sight of Othello and was absorbed in the dog to the total exclusion of the dog's master. At that moment, the baroness, who must have recognized me, stopped and turned towards the exit as if to show her companion the view of the cathedral, for she obviously did not want to be accosted by me at such an hour in the company of a young man. The youth, however, gave a cursory glance at the view, and then turned again to the dog who was snuffing in friendly fashion and—an extraordinary thing for Othello to allow—was apparently enjoying the stranger's caresses. Anxious to avoid giving offence to the baroness, I went quietly on my way, calling the dog to heel when I was at some distance. He came bounding after me.

"Later on, hidden by the breastwork of the terrace, I caught another glimpse of them down below. She was leaning against one of the sphinxes; her left hand was partially supporting her from behind and was pressed against the sphinx's chest, her right hand, the fingers spread, was slightly raised, and her eyes were fixed upon the young man at her side, with that longing expression one often sees in women who are past the prime. Again, from that distance, I was poignantly reminded of Diana. He was resting his weight on his left foot and was playing with his right knee—just Diana's pose!

"Diana once told me she had a handsome brother.

"O Nikolai Nikolaievich! Why did I not take the next train and follow her to Milan that morning?

"ANDREAS."

CHAPTER NINE

Scherer's manservant opened the door to Diana. His feelings were a mixture of expectancy and misgiving. For the first time these eight years past his master had invited a strange lady to visit him alone. His orders had been brief: Dinner for two, in the room giving on the garden; a lady is coming.

"A lady? Alone? He usually gives a name. Or he says a gentleman is coming."

Now, as he took her cloak and contemplated her reflection in the mirror, he thought:

"No, she's not from the theatre!"

He looked relieved, for he had read that the temptations likely to assail a millionaire invariably hail from the theatre.

Diana was wearing a summer dress of simple cut, pale mauve silk, full in the skirt, gathered rather high under the breast, and pinned at the throat with a huge green scarab. She had bought it yesterday with all that remained of her little capital, for she had not wished to appear in a low-cut gown. This evening every vestige of coquetry was to be eschewed. The woman in her may also have been influenced by the fact that Scherer had already seen her in the evening frock at the opera.

Traditional customs of remote ancestors must have been at work within her as, like a duchess, she paused on the threshold of the room waiting for her host to advance and kiss her hand in welcome. He did not fail to notice the gesture. Indeed, not one of her actions this evening escaped his observation. Though as a rule he was reserved where the fair sex was concerned, he allowed his knowledge of human nature free rein in respect of this strange woman, and accepted as natural what in truth was natural enough.

Yesterday he had handed in his invitation to the porter at her hotel, while she, at the very same moment, following the rule of his firm, was eating her lunch at the office. Paula Linke had not betrayed by one syllable that she knew anything of the matter in hand; but Diana de Wassilko had written a few words accepting the invitation. Both Scherer and Diana knew that the lady who signed this note with her true name, the guest he was to entertain tonight, was in a sense to be considered a different woman from the girl who worked in the publishing firm.

She advanced slowly into the room, apologizing for being a little late. They passed into the library. She looked round her for a while, then, as was customary with her, she walked swiftly over to the window. A walnut tree stood outside, its branches illuminated by the lights from within. Scherer stayed where he was, following her movements.

"Her hips are narrow, like a boy's. I wonder if she could ever bear children," he mused.

"That's a fine tree," said Diana. "It smells of resin already, and yet we are only at the beginning of June. Perhaps it's been trimmed recently?"

She spoke softly as if communing with herself. Was she tired?

"Yes, I had to have it trimmed on one side," he answered. "It was hampering the growth of its neighbour."

She turned round, and faced towards the room, her hands resting on the window sill behind.

"Was it difficult to protect it when the house was being built? It is very near the wall."

"Fairly difficult. We had to place a kind of cage round each limb and root so that the men might not damage them."

"Yes, yes, especially when digging the foundations."

"How practical she is," thought Scherer, who was always delighted when any one showed an interest in his house. "Why is it that in all these eight years not one of my women acquaintances (nor for that matter any of my men friends) has thought of asking such a simple question?"

"You had it built for you? A beautiful room, and, if I may say so, conceived in a patrician spirit."

"That was the spirit which underlay my wishes when it was designed."

"You have some fine books on the shelves."

"How can you tell from such a distance?"

"Their arrangement is dignified, they are well bound, and, from the backs, I can see that you have some rare editions. I gather from my survey that there are not many novels among your books."

"Don't you like novels?"

"Life is more interesting. But I am very fond of some novels."

"I'll wager that Balzac is one of your favourites!"

"How do you know?"

"Well, I have learned something about you, anyway."

She laughed, and took the proffered chair.

"Yes, my name!"

"Polish?"

"Ruthenian, and therefore anti-Polish. But my family does actually come from Poland."

"Were you born in Poland?" He smiled as he added: "Since you are so kind as to be communicative."

"No, I was born in Macedonia, near the Albanian frontier. Have you a map?"

"When you were describing the district to me recently you never let on that you were born there," he said dryly.

His tone put Diana on the alert. Her combative nature was aroused, as if she suspected a subtle attack. Raising her eyebrows, she replied:

"I was not asked about myself, Herr Scherer."

"Proud! Easily piqued," thought he. Then, aloud:

"You did not encourage personal questions. Forgive me if I have offended you. These past three weeks I have made every effort to avoid doing or saying anything that might annoy you. Surely you will not be angry with me for one indiscreet remark?"

The spontaneity of his words, and the frank way in which he stretched out his hand in reconciliation, were enough to make her recover her composure. That he did not kiss her hand was further to his credit; and when he drew her arm through his and escorted her into the dining-room she felt quite herself again.

The doors leading to the garden had been set wide, and the soft evening air pervaded the room. A little breeze played in the corners, and sported with the tablecloth, then it fell asleep for a while. Two or three large moths circled round the electric lamps which cast an amber light through their shades.

The wide table put a good distance between Scherer and his guest. Diana for a time sat silently watching the drunken antics of the moths, whose yearning for immolation seemed to be hindered by some higher power. Vaguely daring thoughts came to her.

Her host followed the direction of her gaze. He half guessed what was in her mind, and yet did not venture to intrude upon her meditations. He ate in silence. At last he tried to rouse her by asking:

"Are you worrying about those moths? They can't come to any harm."

"Oh, I know, the lights are enclosed."

Her voice came as it seemed to him from very far away, and he realized that she was thoroughly enjoying her own train of thought. He let a few minutes elapse, and then said very quietly:

"They are adventurers trying to reach an unsuitable goal!"

She looked up, and, after a momentary hesitation, said in a tone of voice that contrasted strangely with her previous tone, having as it were a tinge of mockery in it:

"Maybe they are nothing but unfortunate petites femmes seeking for excitement without running any risks!"

"Do you dislike women?"

"How can I—am I not myself a woman? I loved my mother. All the same, I have never had a woman friend."

"How do you account for that?"

Diana took the long-stemmed green glass which the manservant had filled for the fish course, tasted the wine, and then said:

"Wonderful! Bittersweet! It must be Deidesheimer. I know a cousin of that vintage."

"But it is robbing me of your answer."

"Not at all. Women seem to me to have much the same qualities as wines." Her speech had become livelier, and she spoke with the assurance of a young man. "Most of them are too sweet; some are too crude. The finest wines, Burgundies, I have only found among men."

"What about me?" Scherer was unusually vivacious, his mood almost merry. "What am I? When you are overhauling your cellar what label would you stick on to Scherer?"

Her lips opened, she raised her eyes, shook her head ever so lightly, and looked at him with youthful roguishness as she replied:

"Herr Scherer? Let me see ... perhaps Deidesheimer Kirchenstuck '93!"

They both laughed at the sally. The servant thought: "She is dangerous after all," as he reluctantly filled her glass.

By now the serious mood in which they had sat down to their meal had worn off. They conversed cheerfully about vintages, about travelling through Burgundy, Upper Hungary, Sicily. When at last they rose and made for the terrace, Diana laughingly observed:

"Is there anything better than wine in the world?"

"One thing."

She was dreadfully afraid he was going to say love and thereby spoil everything, and she was duly grateful when he added:

"Music."

Of a sudden she became acutely aware of the loneliness that surrounded this man. The vision of a grand piano drawn up near a window, which she had seen in passing, made her realize how he sought to relieve the solitude of his evenings.

"How boundless must be his dreams," thought Diana.

They sat under the lamp which diffused a gracious light over the terrace. She held her tiny coffee cup poised in mid-air, her whole figure standing out in relief against the trellis work. He was reminded of an English engraving, and told her so.

"I've lived over there," she said composedly. "My grandmother was an Englishwoman. Do you like England?"

"I have mixed feelings towards that country, feelings which vacillate between respect and mistrust. No, I can't say I am fond of it. I cannot help seeing in it the future enemy."

"In Europe?"

"I hope only in the East." He enlarged upon the theme of Anglo-German interests. "When you consider Aden, Bagdad, Gibraltar—— Karl, just bring the globe over here—"

The man set it down on the low table between them, and Scherer pointed to the places he had named, spinning the captive globe round for his guest to see, while he continued to expatiate upon his subject. Suddenly, noticing she had ceased to reply, he exclaimed:

"Are you listening?"

"I'm so sorry, do forgive me," said Diana. "The globe set my thoughts wandering. I cannot see it turning on its axis without getting excited. Think of it! A ball, hanging obliquely between two needles, and yet neither more nor less than the stage upon which we are destined to play our part." She looked up at him inquiringly: "Have you ever felt like that?"

He did not answer.

This beautiful, young, mysterious woman, who could become enraptured with the gyrating of a globe, who could see therein something which touched responsive springs in her own adventurous nature, this woman who had been true to herself through all the tests he had put her to and who had thus confirmed him in his estimate of her capabilities, all these things and, in addition, the vague promptings of an inner urge, combined to break down the barriers of Scherer's habitual reserve.

"Would you allow me, Fräulein Wassilko," he began very calmly. But he broke off, and continued to speak words which surprised even himself: "Will you let me call you just once by your beautiful name?"

She looked at him kindly, though with some astonishment. The mere fact of her leniency gave him back his poise, and he resumed in matter of fact tones:

"Listen, I have a proposal to make. Will you go down there, to the centre of my interests, where our railway is being built? Will you act as my eyes, discover if our relations to that power are on a firm foundation? Above all, will you find out if the ambassador is really as well posted in local affairs as his abilities would lead me to suppose? This is an important mission I am proposing to entrust you with. Take time to think the matter over before you either accept it or turn it down. The whole question of our railway construction, the policy of the paper, everything turns upon how you will interpret things down there. Maybe we shall be strong enough, instead of having to bow to the sceptical policy of the central administration, to work along the lines indicated by the ambassador. What this will mean in a European crisis... Well, think it over; don't hurry with your answer, but let me have it as soon as you possibly can."

"I can answer now," rejoined Diana promptly.

She had followed his appeal sentence by sentence as he hammered out his wishes with almost melodramatic earnestness. Her expression was imperious rather than submissive, and yet it was friendly. While he was speaking, she sat bolt upright, her two hands grasping the round arms of the basket chair.

"I can give you your answer at once. I have been watching you day by day gradually making up your mind to this request. Well, yes, I should like to take the job on, and I shall do my best, if you, or your side, will leave me free to follow my own bent in matters of detail."

Scherer rose to his feet, and strode towards her. But she stopped him with a gesture, saying:

"I am afraid you will be disappointed in the end. Your fancy has magnified my capacities!"

He did not offer to shake hands on the bargain, but protested:

"You will not disappoint me—Diana!"

He pronounced her name very deliberately, once only. It was as if some enthusiast had picked the unique flower of a Victoria regia on the night of its blossoming.

There was a long silence. He went back to his arm-chair and flung himself into it, drawing his pencil from his pocket as if he had notes to jot down. When at last he spoke, his tone was businesslike, much as if he were in his office.

"Here is what I suggest. You leave on the fifteenth of this month, a week from now, that is to say. I'll give you a cheque for twenty thousand marks, out of which you are to pay yourself a salary of three thousand marks a month. You are to charge your expenses extra. I'll give you introductions. You are to write your reports yourself, to me personally, but only when you consider it necessary. Every one will say you are travelling in my interests, but you are not to admit the fact under any circumstances. Give me your word—good—and promise me likewise that you will give no information to any one else. That's right! We'll draw up our contract together; I don't want my secretary to have a suspicion of this undertaking of ours. Agreed?"

"All right," she cried with alacrity as she jumped up and assumed a military attitude of attention.

He smiled as he accompanied her to the hall. On reaching the music room she suddenly stopped.

"What had I better say I am doing down there—officially?"

"Oh, studying—museums—anything you like."

"Excavations! That's the thing. Archæological studies. My father discovered some Phœnician glassware in the neighbourhood."

He noticed that her movements were slower, that her thoughts were elsewhere. At the house door he bade her farewell, and at last bent over her hand and kissed it.

"Good-bye," she murmured in a far-away voice as she got wearily into the carriage.

"She's not been successful after all," thought the manservant as he closed the door on her.

"She is thoroughly natural and yet a mystery," thought Scherer on his way back to his rooms.

He looked at the objects around him, things she had touched or had spoken about. On reaching the window he sniffed the resinous scent of the walnut tree. The moths were still fluttering round the lamps, the globe was on the little table. Her answers came back to him as he mused.

He had quite forgotten that he had entrusted a very unusual and delicate piece of business to a stranger. Everywhere he felt and saw the woman.

When undressing he thought of her boylike figure, and after getting into bed and switching off the light, he said to himself:

"Yes. With such a woman one might be tempted to risk the experiment."

Diana felt tired as she entered her little room. Her body needed rest and relaxation after the hours of tension. The globe had stimulated her imagination, and when Scherer laid bare his plans it seemed to her as if some one had flung wide all the doors of a vast hall filled with columns. Mirrors reflected the columns again and again, so that they appeared to be unending. Then, when he had spoken her name, she had thought: "Can it be that this man has never called a woman by some loving pet name?"

Her thoughts had already begun to stray while he was outlining his conditions. She had felt very tired, had longed to be allowed to go to sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

"Please meet me tonight six-thirty outside New Station. Mufti. Diana."

The major had already been informed that she no longer went to the office regularly, but had been seen at the leading tailor's and dressmaker's busy replenishing her wardrobe. He guessed that some fresh adventure was afoot, and was less surprised at her summons than he otherwise might have been. He accepted the windfall with grateful thanks. Thrusting the telegram into a drawer, he gave his orderly the following instructions:

"See that the place is immaculately clean and tidy. Everything must be dusted, including the tops of the cupboards, thoroughly. Fresh candles. Tea to be served. You are to go to bed at ten. Not to wake me early tomorrow morning; in fact, don't come to my room till I ring. I shall not want my mail brought in, not even if there's a wire. If any one calls, I'm not at home. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Here, take this. As soon as I'm off, get along to the florist over the way and buy some white carnations. Not red ones, or pink ones, or white roses, or wallflowers. White—Carnations. I want them arranged in those three vases, a third of the bunch in each, one on the bedside table. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

But his hopes were dashed as soon as he met her, and when she shook him in so comradely a fashion by the hand. He thought: "I'll give her champagne. They all of them succumb to its spell!"

He tried to persuade her to drive out in a car. She would not hear of it, insisting that they take a train.

"If we keep the car it will cost no end of money; I know you won't send it away, and I can't offer to share expenses. Besides, it's quicker by train, and in this wind any attempt at conversation will be impossible if we motor out."

"Have you so short a time to give me?"

"Till nine."

He knew her dislike of ceremonial and that she hated being cajoled into changing her mind. When she gave, she lavished her gifts with generous hand. So he merely said teasingly:

"You've obviously got some important conference at that hour."

"Well guessed!"

The train was full. They sat in opposite corners, silently appraising one another. He looked rather angular in his civilian suit, and his neck, which was unduly long, struck her as absurd, rising uncouthly above the linen collar. Still, she refrained from staring too pointedly at this flaw, for she knew how sensitive her friend was as to his appearance. Surely he used to be more tanned in the old days? Intellectual pursuits are always bad for the health! A white carnation in his buttonhole? Incurable sentimentalist....

The major took in her thin summer dress, and the mauve-coloured rose in her wide-brimmed, grey-green hat. When he thought he could do so unobserved, he allowed his fancy to roam over the sweets that lay beneath the folds of the frock. Memories crowded upon him, his senses were stirred, he thought of the possible return journey alone with her in a car. Yes, anything might happen. As they walked through the wood which led from the little wayside station to the restaurant, his brain was in a whirl of thoughts and desires.

A table had been reserved by her. They looked down on the unruffled waters of the lake. Not a sail was to be seen on the smooth expanse that gleamed all rosy in the evening light. Diana had ordered the menu, as had been her wont when they used to dine here; and the champagne they drank was of the old familiar brand. But he sought in vain to reawaken in her the mood of long ago by recalling past suppers in these self-same surroundings. Diana, who was looking again at a watery expanse after many weeks' starvation, could think of nothing but the lake and the boat she had run away from so recently. Very softly she began to tell her friend of the life she had led on the island, of swimming and climbing and fishing, of the swallows coming north. She was not in the least amorous this evening; indeed, so calm and collected was she that he too grew less disquieted for a time. After a while, however, his passion once more found expression in his eyes; he drew nearer, pressed his suit with ardour. She stopped him short, observing humorously:

"My dear, I no longer wear the white carnation!"

"You ought to! You must!"

"I have become another being."

"Oh, we must not let this lovely summer evening slip through our fingers. We could be so happy. You would not have wired to me if you had not been free...."

"I am leaving town in three hours from now."

He held his peace, trying to control his emotion, wincing with jealousy at the thoughts her announcement conjured up.

"You are going away?"

"Yes."

"May I ask where?"

"To the Balkans."

Like a flash came the conviction that she was travelling with Scherer, for his acquaintance with the man was too slight for him to know that such an intrigue was out of the question. With innuendo he asked:

"Wagon-lit, I wager!"

She laughed gaily as she penetrated his meaning.

"Yes, wagon-lit. Coupé séparé, for one. A conventual cell from which on arrival at my destination a nun will emerge. I shall bid a solemn farewell to sin as I quaff the last glass of this superb Cliquot!"

He could not help joining in her good humour.

"Why not bid your farewell in the arms of a captain of horse in mufti?"

"Because he has been raised to the rank of major and is a member of the general staff with weighty responsibilities on his shoulders. In addition, my train leaves at eleven."

"There's plenty of time till then. It's only eight," he exclaimed incautiously. He bit his lip in mortification, recognizing his blunder. But she chose to find his words amusing. She laughed, and rejoined with unexpected candour:

"You are forgetting the conference at nine o'clock!"

"Who is the lucky devil?"

"My brother."

The major's brows were raised ever so slightly. She instantly realized that something was amiss. With a complete change of manner, curt and cold, with masculine firmness, she demanded:

"What's up?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Please tell me. As my friend, I beg you to let me know ... Felix!"

Her tone was so earnest that he gave way.

"I am uneasy about him."

"Women?"

"Ladies—and women."

"Hm. Anything else?"

"Gambling."

"Is that all?"

"Debts of honour."

"Who pays?"

He was silent, leaving her to draw her own conclusions. Diana emptied her glass. She gazed down over the peaceful waters of the lake. The past, instead of lending wings to her spirit, weighed heavily upon her. This present moment of time seemed to her an empty, inglorious thing. Ahead of her lay duties to be performed whose attraction depended on people she did not know and whom she could not cut adrift from her life if they disappointed her expectations. She mused:

"Shall you ever be truly free, poor fluttering heart? A man who sends you to spy out the land. A friend for ever on the watch. A brother you must always keep your eye upon. I am a migratory bird. Continually on the go. Is there no coast where I can rest for awhile, alone? Why, just today, should I be so overwhelmed with a longing for solitude, just when I have decided to travel away to fresh adventures?"

She rose slowly, and turned to her companion. His face, too, was clouded. The effervescent spirits provoked by the champagne had evaporated. The major had given up all hope of carrying out his plans for the evening, and it was with perfect frankness that he said:

"We won't go back by train. Too many people."

The car took them swiftly through the twilit wood. Diana always felt more alone, weaker, in the gloaming than in the full light of day. She wanted to seek refuge, to find protection, from this sense of solitude, and leaned confidingly against her friend's shoulder. He wrapped his cloak around her, looking down at her in silence. Her eyes were closed, and round her lips a faint smile hovered. His heart was filled with infinite gratitude. Forgotten now the dreams of her physical charms. He could think of nothing but guarding her from evil. When the car ran over rough surfaces, he held her to him, trying to parry with his elbow the shock of the jolts. He played gently with the strands of hair loosened by the wind, and thought:

"Often and often she has been like a mother towards me. Tonight I feel as if she were my sister. She is always different, infinitely varied."

On reaching town, she sat up again, put her hat to rights, pulled on her gloves, and gripped his big hand in hers.

"Will you promise me something?"

"Willingly."

"Keep an eye on Sidney. Send me a wire if he needs money. Your last letter goes with me. Farewell! Thank you for the drive back, and for your good, kind hands."

She got down at the door of her modest hotel. He held both her hands in his, and kissed the right. Then he drove home. It struck nine as he entered. His man, who had not expected him back so early, was arranging the white carnations. His jaw dropped as he saw his master.

"What are you doing there?"

"The carnations, Sir..."

"Idiot! Go to bed. Call me at five. I'm going for a ride."

Sidney, punctual to the minute, greeted Diana in the hall where she had been awaiting him. She took him straight to her room, where her luggage was ready packed.

"Hallo! Are you going away?"

"Yes, tonight."

"To England?"

"No, to the south. Have you heard from Father?"

"A card from London with his address and a word or two."

"May I make a note of it?"

"Keep the card, and give me the address."

While Diana was copying the long address, Sidney's eye was caught by a picture of a dog in a little silver frame.

"Fine beast! How splendid he looks standing on the shore, staring so eagerly across the water. Is he expecting some one?"

"Yes, he's waiting for me. That's Lago Maggiore. I went for a sail every morning."

"Is he a sort of silvery grey?"

"Yes, and his eyes are blue."

"It's a strange thing, but I came across a dog just like this one quite recently in a public park...."

"Here?"

"No, in Vienna."

Diana felt uneasy.

"The dog stayed with me for a minute or two, snuffing round me, and whining, till his master called him to heel."

"His master called him?"

"Of course. The creature had a beautiful and very appropriate name—Othello."

Diana snapped her bag to, and asked airily:

"So you've just been to Vienna?"

"Last week. Are you going that way?"

"I'm taking the night train to Vienna."

"And beyond?"

"Yes. I'll write to you. Shall I send it to you care of the Political Club?"

"They will forward anything."

"Are you going away, too?"

"I'm not certain. Are you ready to start?"

"No, I've got a couple of letters to write first."

"Then I'll say good-bye. And, please do write to me this time!"

He kissed her hand. She looked fixedly at him for a moment, then kissed him on the cheek.

"Good-bye, Sidney."

"Good-bye, Diana."

For some time after his going she sat in a brown study on the edge of the bed. Then she read the postcard from her father in London, held it up to the light as if to test the authenticity of the handwriting, laid it away in her case, sat down at her desk, and wrote:

"My dear Father,

"Sidney, whom I have met during my brief stay here, has given me your card. You write that our dear old Mary has called, inquiring after me and weeping. Please tell her I should like her to join me in the Balkans as soon as possible. I enclose a cheque for her. Ask her to go to Cook's. They'll tell her how to get to ——.

"Are you never going to write to me? On all my travels a tiny packet of your letters goes with me, hardly twenty in the course of seven years. I know them by heart. I have studied each one over and over, like an orchestral score, a mystery. Will you send me a picture of yourself? Nothing could give your Diana greater pleasure. Sidney tells me your hair is quite white now.

"I had a Great Dane for a time; his coat was silver-grey. He was so fond of me that he was not jealous although his master loved me. He recognized Sidney as my brother when they met by chance in a town far away from here.

"I am starting on a journey tonight, which will take me near my old home. I am in a serious mood, and my mind is full of thoughts. I am sunburned, but Sidney is white.

"Love me as I love you.
"DIANA."

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

As Andreas's carriage drew up before the embassy, his ears were greeted with the strains of Chopin's music pouring down to him through the open window, and while he waited in the marble vestibule his whole being seemed to be bathed in the sounds. Could it be that these minor cadences, simultaneously so bitter and so sweet, gave him a foretaste of the reception he might expect? He was ushered into a darkened room, fitfully lighted by tiny rays of the southern sun penetrating through the Venetian blinds. The alternation of heat and cold, of dazzling radiance and veiled obscurity, plunged his senses into uncertain depths. He felt uneasy as he watched the gold-clad kavass noiselessly retreating into the shadows with his card. At once elated and oppressed, he was conscious of his heart-beats.

"Fate seems to brood over this palace," he mused. "Am I to be drawn into its labyrinthine ways? That oriental moves noiselessly up the stair. I can hear him knock at the door, can see the statesman looking at the message which is to introduce a stranger into his house. My name is unknown to him; nor do I know him. But in a neighbouring room is a woman playing, sending forth to a stranger sounds that convey a warning, and seem to tell him that he is more akin to the music than to the statesman's papers..."

He took a few steps towards the side whence the music came, hoping to hear better. He recognized the piece. It was the Ballade in G minor, and as he listened to the constantly recurring lilt which brought to his mind the leaping and subsiding movement of a fountain, he thought:

"The countess plays like a man. I play it more delicately."

The door was thrown open, and the silent domestic signed to him to follow. They mounted the stairs, and he was led to the room whence the music came. At that moment the final note was played, the servant opened the door, and Andreas moved forward into a twilit chamber. A tall, slender man in a light summer suit rose from the music-stool to welcome him.

"You have just come from Vienna," said the count, so quickly that Andreas scarcely had time to recover from his surprise. "I am very grateful to my old friend for sending you to me. What is he doing now? Rarely do I get a chance of seeing, or hearing about, old acquaintances. Ah, how one longs for the freedom of youth! Then one could travel, one had no responsibilities... I gather from my friend's letter that you are here to look around a bit, to take your bearings... If only the later gains could make up for our lost youth! ... Do you smoke? A cigarette?"

Andreas, from the depths of a huge arm-chair, took a cigarette from the box his host was offering with the quick, jerky movements of a restless boy. Then the count went over to the window, and, with an impatient gesture of the foot, pushed the shutters open. His figure was silhouetted against a dazzling background of scintillating water, the broad span of water above which the palace had been built. Andreas came to his side, and gazed over the landscape. From no other spot could so magnificent a view of the town and surrounding country be obtained. Yet it was his host and not the panorama that held Andreas's attention. The count's right arm was outstretched as he pointed to certain details, while with his left hand he shaded his eyes from the midday glare.

Gregor, Count of Münsterberg, was not the man whose talented Don-Juan type Andreas had seen in portraits taken long ago. Indeed, the count had not allowed any pictures of himself to be published for many a year, and he would certainly not have placed himself in this pitiless light if he had known Andreas of old. For Gregor's hair was grey—those golden locks which had bewitched so many women ten or twenty years back as he sat drawing sweet music from the piano, or casting a look behind as he rode by. The face whose laughter had once beguiled, was now furrowed; the cheeks were sunken, the blue, seductive eyes gazed forth from deep hollows, the mocking lips, slightly open and moist as with much kissing, lay clean shaven over a chin that still had something of its former sauciness but which was no longer round.

As soon as the ambassador felt himself observed, he withdrew from the window, closed the shutters, and motioned his guest to an easy-chair. He himself made for the music-stool once more, puffing at his cigarette as he went. His hands moved to and fro above the keys as if they itched to be playing.

"Am I disturbing you, Your Excellency?" asked Andreas.

"Not in the least, Doctor."

"Oh, please, I never use the title."

"Good. And I will beg you, in return, not to call me 'Your Excellency.' Now, tell me in what way may I be of service to you?"

"In nothing specific, Count. I have come here to get in touch with persons and things, so that ultimately—perhaps—I might be attached to some provincial consulate—or—"

"Have you studied law?"

"No. I am a poet."

Andreas made the statement with such childlike simplicity that he left no margin for astonishment. The count, whose passionate nature made him delight in the unusual, swung himself round on the music-stool as he laughingly declared:

"So you want to make Plato's ideas of the State a reality, eh?"

The name of the great philosopher gave Andreas back his self-confidence, which the abrupt movement of the count had somewhat shaken. He therefore replied vivaciously:

"Action! said Demosthenes."

"Action, yes. I said that too when I felt my talent and inclination drawing me to take up music as my profession, while other feelings were impelling me to devote my life to other issues. Do you imagine there are no regrets?..."

"Who has never had things to regret?"

Andreas spoke very softly. The count became attentive. Such words coming from so young a man left him wondering. He looked more keenly at his visitor, while he thought:

"Should he be pitied or envied because experience has touched him so early in life?"

Slowly he left the piano and walked over to where Andreas sat. His words fell upon the poet's ears like dark drops from a deep, quiet spring.

"If only reality corresponded to our formulas! Action? I would answer your rhetoric with: 'First of all, patience!' Thirty years of patient work during which your black locks will slowly turn to grey, as mine have turned which once were golden. Then, when you have got to the top of the ladder—are you free at last to do what you have always yearned to be doing? Are you then a master, and can you, with the freedom of an artist, put your sign manual upon the clay of a world that now bewitches you? It would have been so splendid to compose a whole series of operas—to have evolved a new form of undying melody, far outstripping the wonders Wagner achieved, a huge symbolical trilogy in three spheres—working undisturbed—in one's chosen medium—undisturbed... Do you really mean to give up writing poetry, to crush the dreams that are now surging in your brain, to renounce the drama now shaping itself within you, in order that you may become consul in, let us say, Kilimanjaro?"

Andreas, who had been much with artists and very little with realists, was not as surprised at such a speech coming from an ambassador within the walls of an embassy as he might otherwise have been. He answered composedly:

"A step up the ladder of patience, Count!"

The elder man roused himself from his gloomy recollections, resumed his alert manner, and said briskly:

"Very well, let us suppose that at some future date you enter as master into the house of my colleague over the way. Who are you then?"

"I don't know exactly... If you mean to imply that here, in this house, you yourself, Count... Great schemes have matured under this roof, far-reaching treaties have been signed at that table, maybe the most amazing alliances have been conceived in this very room. And do you mean to say that all these things have brought no satisfaction to the man responsible for their creation, that they are not sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of a musical career? Forgive me, a stranger, speaking so freely..."

He had risen as if to master his emotion, for he felt the rhapsodic spirit rising within him, and did not wish to be carried away by his own words, especially in this house. But to the master of the house the young man at this moment was particularly attractive, as they walked up and down together and Andreas looked at him, his eyes aglow.

"Go on, go on! You bring youth back into this room."

He blew the smoke from between his lips, flicked the ash from the cigarette, strolled over to a map that was hanging from the wall, and said, speaking indistinctly and with assumed indifference:

"Satisfaction? An excellent word! Occasionally it is—even—quite—interesting."

He stuck his hands deep into his pockets, balanced himself on the toes of his brown leather shoes, gazed absently at the map, and hummed quietly to himself as if he felt he had achieved some mysterious and subtle victory. Then he was silent for a while, bit his lips, and looked with concentrated attention at one particular spot on the map as if he wanted to wrench a town or a province away from the glazed surface of the print. A minute passed. Suddenly he turned to his visitor and asked in cold, formal tones:

"Can I help you in any way? Give you an introduction?"

"Many thanks. Our own..."

"I hope to see you again before you leave, Dr. Seeland."

"With pleasure, Your Excellency."

An hour later, the ambassador sat at table with his wife and his eight-year-old son. While they lunched he told them of his interview with a young poet who was set on taking up a diplomatic career.fx

"Otherwise he seems a most interesting young fellow. The pity of it! There'll be one poet the less, and if he does not shake off his present enthusiasms, there will not be one statesman the more!"

"Who is he?"

"Let me see... Ah, here's his card."

He read the name.

"Andreas Seeland has written some delightful sonnets. I should like to know him."

"Invite him to lunch."

"Lunch is not a good meal at which to make a poet's acquaintance," laughed the countess.

"Well, ask him to tea."

She turned to the butler, gave him Andreas's card, and said:

"Get some one to telephone to the Grand Hotel as soon as possible to ask this gentleman if he can come to tea with me this afternoon at five."

"Today?" queried the ambassador, looking at her dubiously, as if perplexed by his wife's strange caprice.

"Why not?" she counter-queried coldly.

"May I come too, Mamma?" pleaded the child.

"Why do you want to come, I'd like to know?"

"There are always such lovely sandwiches at your tea-parties!"

Andreas had heard various reports concerning the Countess of Münsterberg. It was rumoured that she was a Dalmatian princess, emancipated, but not amorous; that she wantonly defied the fashions in dress; that she disseminated scandalous stories about her own life in order to revenge herself for her husband's dalliance with the fair sex. All these stereotyped items of society gossip had left Andreas cold. Nor had his curiosity been sufficiently aroused to make him seek an early interview with the lady. Besides, he had been influenced by the almost universal detraction, and fancied her no more than a society dame wishing to make herself conspicuous by eccentricities. The unfavourable impression was redoubled when he received her sudden and informal invitation. With a nameless dread and misgiving in his heart, he climbed the stairs and was shown into her boudoir. He stood bowing on the threshold as the kavass noiselessly closed the door.

The room was wide and lofty, illuminated with the mellow light of the afternoon sun. Blue was the prevailing colour, but the furnishings were in no particular style. Over against one of the windows he saw a massive table and some cumbersome easy chairs. Away in the farther corner, as it might be on the opposite bank of a wide river, he guessed there must be a commodious divan, for he saw the outline of a reclining feminine form. A vast expanse of blue carpet, thrown rug-fashion on the floor, separated him from this woman, a huge sea through whose waters he must swim if he wished to reach her shore. Slowly, stepping cautiously, he ventured forward. His eyes were riveted on to that far-off strand where—was it a shoal?—the half reclining, voluminous shape of the woman awaited him. The rock on which she lay shone like gold; her flowing raiment was blue; and, like a golden wave, her hair was massed upon her head, shimmering amid the encompassing ocean of blue which lapped around her resting place. He paused for a moment on reaching the middle of the carpet. The whole thing must be a dream-canvas by Veronese. But those were two living eyes which gazed so fixedly at him, patiently awaiting his approach. As if swimming against a strong current, he advanced step by step towards the distant shore. She raised herself on her arm, and he saw that she held a book in her hand, a book of verses, judging by the wide margin. Her eyes were intent upon him, unfathomable in their earnestness. So immobile was she that he could study the details of her face as he drew near, could see the passionate curve of the lips.

These lips now fell softly apart, and a clear contralto voice exclaimed:

"Poeta!"

He tried to smile his thanks, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his expression remained serious and he could utter one word only:

"Principessa!"

CHAPTER TWO

At half-past twelve next day a carriage drew up before the embassy. Diana stepped down. She had arrived the previous evening, a week later than Andreas, and neither suspected the other's presence in the town. A sorrel horse was pawing the gravel at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door, tossing his head as the groom held the bridle-rein. Diana moved forward up the steps, and at that moment a little boy came running from the house, closely followed by three men of uncertain age. The men bowed to Diana in passing, while one of them called to the child:

"It's no use, Clemens, Papa is already coming down!"

"Just one little minute," pleaded the lad, placing his foot in the groom's hand and leaping into the saddle, while his three friends gathered round protesting.

Diana meanwhile handed the servant her card and a letter of introduction to the ambassador. The man shook his head:

"I'm sorry, Madam, but His Excellency is out riding."

She turned to go, and as she did so an Italian greyhound brushed against her, springing down the steps. From the door came a sound of spurs clinking; a tall shadow fell across her path. She looked up to find herself confronted by a man in riding breeches, a crop in his left hand, while his right was brought to the salute. A nod from her in acknowledgment, unusually free and debonair, took him so much aback that he forgot to drop his hand after the greeting. The dog stood shivering at his side, eager and expectant. Would the man speak, apologize for not receiving her? His lips opened; she liked his looks; smiled at him. He, too, smiled; but at that moment the boy called up to him:

"Papa! I'm going to ride away, and leave you!"

The elder man turned abruptly, made a sign to the child, saluted Diana once again, and, elastic as the greyhound at his side, ran down the steps to join the group round the horse.

Diana got into the carriage, the four men and the boy bowed farewell, the coachman whipped up the horses, and she was gone.

The ambassador watched the dust cloud rising behind the vehicle, then slowly dropped his eyes to the card and the envelope the servant had given him. He read: Diana de Wassilko, Hotel Savoy. The letter was an introduction from Scherer. He twisted the card between his fingers, vexed that the meeting had not been better managed on his part. His eyes travelled to the group round the horse; the greyhound whined with impatience at his side. Suddenly he saw the boy slip in the saddle, while the men teasingly pulled him by his little legs.

"Clemens! Come, I won't have it. Off you get!" And, stepping up swiftly, he lifted the child down. His voice was so harsh that his son looked up at him inquiringly. The three men, too, were embarrassed, as they watched the count swing himself into the saddle and ride away, preceded by the dog. With a sulky pout, Clemens gazed after his father's retreating figure. Then the party turned, and strolled up the hill. They were silent for a while, each thinking the same thought. At last the eldest murmured: "The chief's in a bad temper again. I wonder what's up?"

Baron Linnartz, the speaker, was a man of forty or more, secretary to the Legation. His bald head was sunk between exaggeratedly broad shoulders, and his moustache, which he carefully trained into an upward curve, did not conceal his shapeless lips, which twisted nervously from time to time.

"Probably the sequel of a lonely night!" exclaimed the military attaché.

The baron made a pretence of being shocked at such barefaced cynicism.

"My dear Eckersberg, what a suggestion!"

"Well, Linnartz, if you know of any better amusement in this vale of tears, out with it. If not, at least let us talk of our rake's dreams since we have been effectually marooned in this land of odalisques!"

"You forget that I am a married man, my dear Count!"

"Sorry, Baron."

The youngest attaché, who had hitherto held his peace, now put in a word hoping to dispel the slight tension which had arisen between his two companions. He had been nicknamed "the tall prince." A man with artistic tastes and a pretty wit, he was a universal favourite, though he himself suffered from a chronic state of tedium as he moved from one drawing-room to another on his long crane's legs.

"Honi soit qui mal y pense, Gentlemen! Our worthy chief was obviously put out because the young lady drove off so quickly. Didn't you notice? Wasn't she charming in her white dress, with the love-locks dancing under her lace veil? And he lost his opportunity, because he had decided on a ride. Poor old Gregory the Seventh! You ought to be sorry for him."

"You are always making excuses for him," protested the baron. "He has no business to behave like that, to be so offhand with us. One who is ill-tempered and capricious with his intimates is the same when dealing with political situations. The State..."

"Oh Lord, the State!"

"Yes, the State, if Your Highness will allow me to explain. Respect for the leading officers of a State should not have to depend on impressions created by the female of the species. One who has the State's interests at heart should not, indeed, allow himself to be influenced by impressions of any kind. I stick to what I have said ever since they sent me here two years ago: he may be a very gifted man, a man with fine ideas; but a man who has time to play Schubert all the morning is not fit for an official post."

"Chopin, my dear Baron," amended the prince, hoping to turn his companion's thoughts away from this perennial grievance.

The other cleared his throat for a further attack, but the prince leaned across him and, speaking to Eckersberg, inquired:

"Did you, too, notice nothing?"

"A thoroughbred! Must be of aristocratic birth. Probably she'll be invited to lunch and trotted out to show her points as usual! Have you seen the countess this morning?"

"She put off my wife yesterday—they'd been going to have tea together. Said she had a visitor. I fancy it was a young man who has just come here from Vienna."

"Vienna? He must be the young poet, then," interjected the prince.

"Poet?" repeated the count. "So that's the kind of people they are sending down here now! What extraordinary things Austria does export, to be sure!"

Half an hour later Diana was about to sit down to lunch when the waiter brought her a card.

"Is the gentleman here?"

"His Excellency is waiting in the hall."

"Give me time to get back to my room, then show him up, please."

Diana deftly put a little order into her sitting room, thinking meanwhile: "He's been quick about it!" On the way back from the embassy she had recapitulated the scene which had promised so well but which the chance word of a child had suddenly brought to a close. She tried to interpret the omen. Did it mean that the child was to keep them apart? But she had no designs on this man! All she had to do was to study him, to find out what influence he exercised, who were his opponents, and so forth. That is what she had come down here to accomplish after two days and two nights travelling in the train. As for him personally...

There was a knock at the door. The ambassador entered. He was still in riding breeches, but the dog and the crop had been left below. Stepping lightly as a youth, he came towards her with outstretched hand.

"Please forgive me for coming like this, but I did not wish to delay bringing my apologies. The servants have a general order... I was just off for my morning ride.... Yes, I know it is the hottest part of the day, and you may well shake your head disapprovingly that I should be so inconsiderate to my horse, in June, midday... And with such bad roads... I had to pay a call in the suburbs... Do you ride?"

"Of course!"

"I hope you've brought your saddle with you; there's nothing to be got here to suit a lady..."

"I don't use a side saddle. I ride astride, like a man."

There was a momentary silence between them. The words instantly conjured her up in his imagination as she had stood on the steps at the embassy; they flooded the whole picture with erotic significance, and set his heart to a quicker beat. At the same time the memory of her name flashed through his mind as he said:

"Perhaps it may suit you to..."

"With pleasure, if the countess can come too..."

She merely brought the countess into the conversation because she considered that the rôle she was destined to play demanded a scrupulous adherence to social conventions. But the count had been quick to read her true character, and was no more to be taken in than a dog one tried to entice on to a false scent.

"The countess? Oh, she's all right. She doesn't ride any more, since she was thrown... Besides, as you see, I am no longer young..."

He bent his head before her with all the subtle coquetry of a man used to woman's admiration. Her smile did not escape his notice, for he exclaimed:

"There, now you are mocking my grey hairs!"

"Does Your Excellency wish for veneration?"

"Ah, that title I am doomed to hear reeks of gout!"

He moved away from her towards the window.

Diana's mirth took to flight on the instant. She saw the finely shaped lips twitch ever so slightly, and guessed all the pain that lurked behind the pleasantry. It seemed to her suddenly as if she had grown old, had leaped the decades that divided her from this man, and that she and he were of equal age. So great were her powers of imagination that she was able to transfer her change of outlook to her physical appearance. The count turned round intending to make some trivial comment on the town, but the amazing change in her face stopped the words before they left his lips. He hesitated a moment, and then with a boyish smile he asked:

"Have you no word of comfort for a poor grey-haired man?"

She was not in the humour to continue in this vein, and whispered softly to herself:

"Grey-haired... What are years? ... Are we not here today and gone tomorrow?..."

"You mean...?"

"Don't you remember Hamlet's words to Horatio?"

"For the moment..."

She looked him squarely in the eyes, and said with meaning emphasis, as if shooting two arrows one after the other from the same bow:

"Hic et ubique? Then, we'll shift our ground."

"Hic et ubique! Did Hamlet say that too?"

"Who else, indeed?"

"That's our motto... It's the motto on the Münsterberg coat-of-arms."

"Strange coincidence," she said looking earnestly at him.

He returned her scrutiny, his expression slowly changing as he did so. Then:

"Hic et ubique! Are those words true?"

"What is truth?" said Diana quietly. "Truth is a word only the free in spirit can pronounce, Count."

"Are you so fearless?"

Without stirring from her place, she looked at him gravely and did not answer.

"And are you so proud?"

Again she made no reply. She waited. At last, unable to bear her scrutiny any longer, he rose from his chair and stood twisting his cap in his fingers like an awkward boy.

"Forgive me," he said. "Perhaps such questions are not becoming in a lady's drawing-room..."

"We are in a hotel," she replied airily. "Yesterday the room may have been a forger's den!"

"Do you think so badly of this town?" he laughingly inquired.

"No, not of the town, only of mankind in general."

He let his lips linger on her hand at parting.

"When may I hope to see you again, and where?" he asked.

Abruptly she was a girl again as she merrily replied:

"Hic et ubique, Count of Münsterberg!"

He rode slowly home, deep in thought. Abdul, the greyhound, sought to catch his eye, whining, barking softly, hoping for a run. But his master continued to keep the horse at a walking pace.

"Corpo di Baccho," exclaimed the count at last. "Here's a strange creature crossing my path! She stood on the steps and smiled down at me—just like a cheeky little duchess of seventeen. She gets into a carriage like a grande dame of thirty. Then she talks boldly, frankly, eloquently,—a reincarnation of Byron at nineteen or twenty! Extraordinary. What am I to do? She's too tender a thing for me to tamper with. And yet she's not tender, not in the least. She is made of metal throughout, throat, breast... How splendidly her name suits her. Why am I so squeamish, then? Is she too young? Am I really grey? Passé? ... Come up, Cavalier! Abdul!"

He set spurs to his horse, and the beast sprang forward to a gallop. Snorting, sweating, the three careered up the hill. At the top was a little hollow. Gregor, plucked from his impassivity by the excitement of the ride, now spurred his mount anew, and they flew over the ditch—much to the astonishment of some passers-by who had never seen him ride so furiously before. At break-neck speed, he continued along the alley. In the distance he espied a carriage. The flutter of light dresses told him that the occupants were women. Again he pressed forward, determined to overtake them.

"Youth, youth is driving ahead of me... Youth! I must catch up ... or ... we are passé... Come on, Abdul! Now then, Cavalier! Abdul!"

Like a conqueror reaching his goal, intoxicated and yet exhausted, he passed by the carriage at such speed that the horses shied.

CHAPTER THREE

"You are mistaken," said the tall prince pointing to a special bar on the score. "Weingartner always ignores this repeat, and goes straight on to the next movement. Nor is it certain whether Beethoven himself meant that for repeat marks. I have had the original manuscript in my hand, and just at that point is a blot of ink!"

"Still," put in Andreas, "if one compares this with similar effects in other compositions, don't you think we might conclude that...?"

"Of course," interposed the countess. "In the next world I shall always have this part repeated."

The three speakers were standing in the embrasure of the window. Gathered round the fireplace at the other end of the small rococo room, were the count, Baron Linnartz, and the baroness. The shrill laughter of the lady could be heard from time to time. It rang false now, as it always did when she was put out and had no suitable answer ready. Her eyes were full of enmity as she glanced across at the countess.

"You have made up your mind, then, to be a man at your next reincarnation?"

The prince spoke pointedly and looked down at her with an expression which emphasized the physical difficulty of such a transformation. The big woman instinctively pulled up the neck of her gown so that the soft green silk came into contact with the gems that shone on her full round bosom.

"Then maybe I shall at last fall in love with you, Prince, for you will undoubtedly be a woman!"

Andreas, who had never heard a lady speak with so much boldness, looked at the countess dubiously, and pressed his lips tightly together. The prince, standing slightly in Andreas's rear, was fully aware that both were trembling.

"Possibly you are right," said he in a tone that was a mixture of boredom and reflectiveness. Though he was fond of teasing her, he felt a platonic sympathy for the eccentric being. "I shall hope to be a woman fiddler in the orchestra of which you are to be the conductor."

"I shall only have men in my orchestra," answered the countess resolutely. "You shall be my first 'cellist," she added turning to Andreas, without in any way relaxing the intense seriousness of her expression.

"And what will the count play?" asked the prince maliciously.

"Piccolo!"

The two men laughed; and now the countess joined in their mirth for she wished to conceal the fact that this, also, was spoken in earnest.

"Good morning, Count Eckersberg," she exclaimed as the military attaché stood bowing at the door.

"May I share the joke?" he inquired, advancing towards the group in the window.

"Which one? Ours?" cried the count from his corner by the fireplace. He hoped Eckersberg might join his group, for the Linnartz conversation was anything but entertaining.

"Embarras de richesse," said Eckersberg in conventional tones, trying to bring the two groups together.

"Shall we go in to lunch, Gregor?"

"I'm expecting another lady."

"Who is she?" came from the two angles at once.

"Surprise à la fourchette!"

"May I know?" asked the baron stepping up to the countess's side.

"A stranger. I cannot even remember her name. She came with a letter of introduction to the ambassador. He asked her to luncheon."

"Introduced by Scherer, comes from Berlin," said the ambassador, as if to allay any doubts that might have arisen, for he was alive to the fact that strange things were laid to his charge. "You will find her quite charming."

"Can it be the young person with the love-locks?" inquired the military attaché.

"Ecco!" was the brief answer.

Andreas had not missed a syllable of this lively exchange. At the words "love-locks" his pulses began to throb. The thought of Diana rushed through his brain. He drew nearer the countess, for she alone of all those present in the room inspired him with confidence.

"Who is the lady?" he whispered.

He was conscious of his heart-beats as the countess, turning to her husband, asked:

"Gregor, what is our guest's name?"

The door was thrown open as she spoke, and her interest was transferred from the count to the new arrival. Andreas had followed her first glance, and hung upon the count's lips whence he expected the answer to the riddle. Now, however, his interest too was centred on the door which seemed to him to fly open as if by magic, for from where he stood he could not see the servant who ushered the guest into the room. The tension he experienced at this moment was so extreme that he felt anything might happen.

Diana appeared in the doorway.

A sudden quiet fell upon the company. She had so recently been the subject of their conversation that they felt caught in the act, self-conscious. Diana, as usual, paused a moment on the threshold before shaking hands with the ambassador, who had stepped forward to welcome her. The baron and his wife, ever suspicious of anything the chief was responsible for, looked at Diana sceptically; the officer's inspection savoured of curiosity; the prince's, of delicate mockery. The countess, whose lonely heart was wearied with the hundreds of masks she had been forced to gaze on in this very room, and yet whose hopes revived with every fresh apparition, saw the young woman in profile shaking hands with the host. Taken aback by the boyish silhouette, and at once recognizing all this little figure contained of pride and courage, the countess turned towards Andreas as if to seek confirmation of her first impression. But the stranger was being led towards her by the count, and the hostess, remembering her rôle, took a step forward in greeting. At that moment Diana came to a dead stop. The countess, not knowing what had happened, followed suit. Thus the women faced one another like two foes who had met unexpectedly. Diana had recognized Andreas; at the same moment she also saw the golden-haired woman, with the dark-haired youth standing immediately behind her; one picture, a draught to quaff in one gulp.

Before the other guests became aware that anything was amiss, the women had pulled themselves together and were already shaking hands. The prince, alone, inscribed upon the tablets of his memory the three looks that had been exchanged. The count was introducing her.

"Herr Seeland—Fräulein de Wassilko."

Diana slowly bowed her head; Andreas bent forward from the waist.

"You take the countess in," whispered the prince to Andreas, for it was customary among them to make a newly appointed attaché play the son of the family.

CHAPTER FOUR

Andreas to Nikolai.

"... I am dreaming again. I never can dream when I am actively happy. Then my nights follow one another in unchanging succession. The hand, which a moment before had been caressing the beloved, seems to go to sleep of its own accord; while my head, close to hers, is still linked to it by some few strands of hair. Then my capacities for dreaming seem to be lulled as if, in the arms of love, they were gathering new inspiration for the solitary days which were bound to follow.

"For the moment I am not alone, but I am not fully in possession of my joy; therefore I am dreaming once again.

"Last night I was on our island. Day was beginning to dawn. The boatman could hardly see the landing-stage, so dark lay the shadow from the oleander tree. I went slowly up the hill towards the white house. The door was open, but Othello was not there to greet me. As in summer time, cushions were strewn on the terrace, and some rugs lay there just as Diana might have left them. A book had slipped to the ground. My weary feet went slowly up the steps. The door leading into our bedroom was open; on a low table, a candle was guttering into its socket. I stepped noiselessly up to the curtain which sheltered the bed, and through whose folds I could hear the regular breathing of the sleeper. I pulled the curtain back, and there lay—Olivia, naked, before my eyes. Othello (can you understand, my Nikolai?), Othello will not enter dreams into which Diana does not come, and where Olivia breathes and has her being. Othello is faithful. I fear I am not! Is Diana?

"For she is here, in this out-of-the-way part of Europe. Don't be too astonished!

"The day after the one I last wrote to you about, the day I made the principessa's acquaintance, I was invited to lunch at the embassy, and was standing behind Olivia when, all of a sudden, in came Diana. I cannot honestly say that I was surprised. 'Dream, come back to me,' I had whispered every night during all those weeks when, in my loneliness, I longed for a sight of her. So when she appeared thus before me it was as if in response to my expectations. She herself was taken aback by our meeting, for she grew pale. When we took our places at table, and as the meal progressed, my heart went out to her, and every word I said seemed to be inspired by her. She was dressed in white, and the bronze of her skin shone through the raiment and gleamed forth among the pale company like the horns among the violins in that piece of Schumann's—you remember it.

"Othello had sensed her presence before I did. He had run hither and thither restlessly as we were out walking the previous evening. He was searching for a trail that I knew nothing of. She may have passed by in a carriage, and only my dog and not my heart had been aware of her proximity. Am I being put to a test? How would it have been had I not seen Olivia, and had run across Diana while taking a stroll? Would everything have been as it was in the spring? I ask myself whether the extreme of love which Olivia's lips seem to promise, will, if I ever get so far, sow the field of my life with as lavish a hand as Diana's when she yielded hesitatingly to my passionate embrace. I see, I feel, what awaits me. Everything, in the world of reality, my friend, we are doomed to know beforehand. You may well ask why I have set my foot on the hard and toilsome road leading to this new experience. How, I answer, can a man control his fate in such matters?

"A creature resembling a young moon has driven me forth into the noonday glare, I know not why. There I am faced with the great sun who, in his turn... Will he drive me back into the dusk whence I have so recently emerged? I'm sorry to be writing so mad a letter. The nights are to blame, so hot, and the sirocco blowing....

"I enclose a new poem—To Olivia.

"ANDREAS."

Diana to Scherer.

"... My very first experiences here confirm your hopes. I've called on the minister. The visit was fairly successful, partly because I did not go with an introduction from the embassy, and partly because a certain Egyptian, sent to me by the manager, smoothed the way for me. Furthermore, the process of interpreting facilitated our negotiations. Where else in Europe are we given so much time for reflection, where else can we study the effect of our actions upon our antagonists so admirably as here? He did not believe a word I said when I informed him that I wished later on to make a few excavations and wanted to use the new permanent way to get to the ruins which lie on either side of the track. I gathered all this by the solemn fashion in which he nodded his head and promised me everything I asked. He is not more narrow-minded than many of our own folk, but he is extremely false. He speaks reservedly about the count, which inclines me to believe that some sympathy exists between them. The railroad people are of course uncongenial to him, when he does not positively loathe them; and he is comforted by the thought that I personally seem to have little to do with them. His secretary speaks French, and I paid him a score of compliments afterwards. Nor did I miss an opportunity to have a dig at his master. I shall certainly need the man's help in the future. The main thing is to discover what the French have promised, and especially how much they have offered him if he will consent to act against Münsterberg. I have tipped the bearer of this letter as handsomely as if the missive were destined for a ruling monarch....

"Your manager is splendid. But he will have to get over the mistrust he naturally feels towards me on account of your very flattering recommendation. At present he sees in me nothing other than a kind of supervisor! His house is not sufficiently comfortable to receive guests, so I was invited to dine at the hotel. We ate what was provided by the menu of the day, and drank a sweet fizz very much the worse for wear, from which I gather he is of a thrifty disposition. His wife has the beautiful eyes, the slow movements, the cloying sweetness, the perfidy, and the ceaseless longing for love, typical of the Levantine woman. He manages to keep her in hand for the present. While we were at dinner, for instance, she ogled an English naval officer at a neighbouring table, and her husband literally crushed the look under foot before my very eyes. You know that since his marriage he is still received at the embassy, but only once a year now, at the annual levee when there are some three hundred guests present.

"For the rest, I shall have to be concise. I enclose the notes I made immediately after my several visits to the manager, the minister and the bank director (who seems ill-disposed towards me).

"As for the ambassador, I can't say much as yet, for we are only in the initial stages of our acquaintanceship. Still, I like the man. Seen him twice, en petit comité, no politics. I cannot believe that you really care for him. He speaks of you with a kind of cool warmth.

"His enemy, the baron, is likewise my foe; so is the baroness. Eckersberg is innocuous, but his thoughts run in a somewhat bawdy vein. The tall prince may be a friend. I am doing my best to be pleasant to the secretary who sees after the dispatching of my correspondence, for as Count M. says, we are all at his mercy. He is a domestic tyrant, but tamable.

"Since, in spite of my arts and wiles, I foresee that he will read my letters, and since I may seldom have a chance of sending you a letter, as on this occasion, by a trusty hand, we had better agree upon a code: Greyhound = Count Münsterberg, the German ambassador; Terrier = Count Eckersberg, the military attaché; Policedog = Baron Linnartz, secretary to the Legation; Sheepdog = Prince Eduard, youngest attaché; Drayhound = the aforesaid secretary; Great Dane = Manager; Bulldog = Minister. Further zoological data to follow.

"Best wishes.

"DIANA."

The major to Diana.

"Your card with address only and view of the town hardly seems to court an acknowledgment. Nevertheless it does not actually forbid me to answer. So I shall profit by the fact and send you a few lines, especially as today is the anniversary of a date that will for ever be inscribed in my heart.

"Unfortunately such times as those of three years ago are not to be recaptured. Were it not for my work (I shall ever have you to thank for helping me to get it) I could hardly believe that I am the same man.

"Talk here runs mainly upon that corner of the world where you happen to be. Nobody has any confidence in the present peaceful situation; calm before a storm. I have seen Herr Scherer lately, two meetings quite close together. He is amazingly inquisitive, always plying me with questions, looks at me searchingly, and so on. I wonder if he suspects me of something. If anyone has a right to suspicion surely it is I rather than he!

"By the way, I have to thank his rival in the political field—if the question of gratitude arises at all in the matter, which I doubt—for a very interesting possibility. Last Tuesday, the minister came over to me after being deep in talk with N. We were all at the club. He said he had heard that I was interested in politics. Was I good at languages, and so forth. I was guarded in my replies, for I was not sure what he was driving at. In the end he asked whether I'd like a post abroad....

"What would you say if one fine morning I appeared on the scene of your mysterious operations, and greeted you with: 'Good-morning, most honoured of friends?'—Have no fear, I'm effectively stuck here at my post, and when I'm 78 I'll be relegated to the pensioners' almshouse—if any such thing still exists after another eighty years of peace.

"Your faithful servant,

"F. v. M."

CHAPTER FIVE

"Where could it have been? Where on earth have I seen that pert toss of the head before? And those love-locks? And those firm hands, long and tapering? How do I know that they are strong? Was it at the tennis tournament in Baden? But she would have been a mere baby when I was playing there. Or at Cannes?"

The baron racked his brains trying to remember. At last, next day as he sat in his study reading a dispatch concerning unrest in the Soudan, memory suddenly flooded his mind.

"By God—it is—! St. Petersburg! Of course! St. Petersburg! That very wrist! My instinct is as trusty as a machine. I felt uneasy the moment she stepped into the room. Hm. All the same, I can't exactly tell Gertrude..."

He laughed, half malignantly and half lasciviously.

"I say, my dear Linnartz," said the ambassador as he came in quickly, a cigarette between his lips and a dispatch in his hand. "Just read this."

He leaned over the baron's shoulder as the latter sat reading the document.

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"First of all, since it does not come from headquarters, it hardly..."

"Headquarters," interrupted the count, pacing up and down. "At headquarters they are as usual sleeping the sleep of the unjust. When my friend Rochow codes me that he believes Le Chat is to be sent here, and his surmise harmonizes with our own local information—what on earth do headquarters matter one way or the other?"

"Your Excellency must decide..."

"Now you're offended again, my worthy Baron. For my part, I'm going to search out proof of that which I have long suspected, and which my advisers have never wished to believe."

He flung himself into the depths of an easy-chair next the writing-table, made rings with his tobacco smoke, drummed with his fingers on the edge of the glass top, and then said, speaking through his teeth:

"If only we were not all of us in such bad odour over there. Every dragoman may be looked upon as a spy. What have you to say, my dear Linnartz?"

"I've always been against these crooked methods, although I am quite willing to acknowledge that at times..."

"We must—find—new—people—to..." The ambassador spoke very slowly, like a beast of prey preparing for a spring. He passed his acquaintances in review, and suddenly the image of Andreas rose before his mental vision.

"If only he were one of our compatriots..."

The count rose, took a turn round the room, seeking for a way of approach.

"Perhaps after all there is no truth in the surmise..."

He made as if to go, stopped as he reached the door, turned abruptly, and asked in a completely changed tone of voice: "Tell me, how did you like our young poet the other day?"

"Very intelligent young man. But I am always suspicious of people who are backward in their profession. Anyway he has no knowledge of law."

"What matter? The lack relates only to the very beginning of things, where a man is a slave of documents. It would be a poor sort of poet whose intuitions would not be of more use to him than having passed some dry-as-dust examination, when the matter at issue is the management of men!"

"I don't know what kind of a poet the young man may be ... but I personally am inclined to be cautious in my dealings ... with everyone..."

The count felt that the last words implied a suspicion against Diana, too, whom chance had brought to his house at the same time as the poet, and concerning whom the baroness had whispered her disapproval in his ear. He knew Linnartz of old, and was accustomed to find in him the enemy of his friends, of his own inclinations, and, whenever possible, of his policy. The innuendo did not, therefore, cut very deep, and he said rather distantly:

"Yes, it's true, she's a charming little woman, this Fräulein de Wassilko!"

Linnartz was quick to seize the opportunity thus afforded. He rose, fixed his monocle, and approached his chief with the utmost formality.

"I feel it my duty to inform you, Count, that I have already had occasion to observe the lady..."

"How?" asked the other, taken aback.

"Three or four years ago when I was attaché in St. Petersburg. I had rooms in the Grand Hotel at the time, as a single man. I met the lady—several times—in the company of some wealthy young Poles; they supped together, very décolletée, very lively, somewhat prolonged festivities...."

"Well, and what then?"

"Nothing that I can prove. But I thought that in the interests of the country I should be remiss in my duty if I failed to draw Your Excellency's attention..."

"Thanks, my dear Baron, many thanks," said the count with a frosty smile as he left the room.

Once back in his own study he gave vent to his feelings.

"Je m'en fiche," he exclaimed. "This wretched Linnartz is for ever there, talking like a decree from the ministry itself. 'I feel it my duty... in the interests of the country ... décolletée... wealthy young Poles...' Well, and what if she did?"

He had seen Diana once since the luncheon party. But a feeling of unrest, which in no way resembled the ardent desire of a virile nature, had daily urged him to seek a meeting with this woman. Her personality and her name intrigued him, lured him to probe the depths which he had glimpsed in those few seconds of their first encounter.

"Fine weather for a sail," he had thought when, early one morning, he glanced from the heights where he lived down upon the great spread of waters. "Diana would look well in a sweater as she sat at the helm. I am sure that with such eyes and such hands she must be a splendid navigator."

Or, again, as he took a stroll in the park after breakfast, he would murmur:

"In the forenoon I'd have her dressed in flowing drapery, à la grecque, so that her raiment, caught by the breeze, would cling to her boyish limbs, and, as she stood with her back to the sun, her whole outline would be visible through the diaphanous material."

Or, of an evening, he would step forth on to the balcony where dinner was served, and would imagine her leaning against the balustrade, illuminated by the lights from within the drawing-room, silhouetted against the night sky.

With a reserve which pleased him mightily while it made him all the more impatient to see her, she had refused all invitations, and once only had come to play tennis in the afternoon. Even then, she had been no more than a quarter of an hour on the court. For the countess, who did not play, was on the watch for her coming and kept an eye on the lawn from behind the sun-blinds of her apartment. Twice she had been to the window in vain. After each rebuff she had returned to her occupation at the great table which was heaped with Venetian beads of every shade and hue. These she amused herself with by letting them roll idly through her fingers. On looking down a third time into the garden she spied Diana. The countess rang. As soon as her maid appeared she sent word begging her guest to come up as she was not feeling very well.

Diana responded at once to the invitation. The blue room was darker, cooler, more mysterious this day than it had been at Andreas's first visit, and as Diana entered she saw the big woman with her heavy coils of golden hair and her long, dark blue, loosely hanging robes, coming forward in welcome. The countess, however, saw a very young girl, whose legs emerged firm and slim from below the short white linen skirt, while from under the brim of her white felt hat the chestnut hair escaped in delicate tendrils as if it longed to realize that perfect freedom which indeed breathed from the whole personality of the visitor.

"Forgive me," said the countess, "I am not really ill. But I do not care for the company of the ladies I have to meet in my garden below, so I never go down now."

Diana had stepped up to the table where the beads were displayed. She contemplated them but did not touch them.

"Do you like them?" asked the countess.

"Many a chain could be made from them. Strings of beads in one colour or in many different colours."

"True enough. I'd never thought of that."

"What do you do with them?"

"I—oh I just rummage among them," answered Olivia softly, somewhat nonplussed. Her thoughts ran:

"This young creature is striving after proportion and harmony while engaged in restless adventures. What of myself? I gather reckless dreams to my heart while my life goes smoothly along in untroubled ways."

She offered her guest a tall, inlaid bowl of iced fruits. Then she withdrew into the shadows, and seated herself on a low couch where she seemed rather to recline than to sit. The two women sat silently opposite one another, while from below came the calls of the tennis players. After a long pause, the countess said languidly:

"You are sunburnt. As you take the cool fruit in through your lips you remind me of a young Arab I once saw in the bazaar at Damascus. His hot, bronzed skin was reflected in the cool waters of the river that has created the oasis on which the town stands."

"How beautifully you speak," said Diana as if to ward off the comparison.

"When I'm in ordinary social gatherings I am dumb. I hate being in a large company. Do you not feel the same kind of dislike?"

"Oh, no! I often feel a sort of stream flowing through people when they talk together—a stream that gives them life and motion, that has the beauty of a unified work of art."

"You are lucky in being able to choose your own companions. I am not free."

She flashed a hostile glance towards the window through which the voices from the garden reached her from time to time.

"And yet," said Diana, "I find people in your circle, here as everywhere, who hide more than their chatter reveals."

"Why hide? Why dissemble?" The countess's rich alto trembled as she spoke. "Life is short, the possibility of choosing a friend comes so rarely, opportunities are so few and far between. Why then should the cumbersome veils of formality be superadded to prevent men from knowing their fellow men? Artists are freer! Without caring a snap of the fingers for traditions which might restrict their movements, they grasp and take all that pleases them. They grab the mad adventure of life itself by the hair and never pause to inquire whether they are rumpling those glorious locks... There, now you're laughing!"

"What comes after the mere grabbing?" asked Diana. "A man is just a man and is not to be distinguished from his fellow mortals if he merely grasps and takes what he likes."

"You are very young—Diana. May I call you by your name? We are alone. The years that lie ahead of you are measureless, you think the forces within you are inexhaustible, and the feeling of undying youth makes you lavish in your use of time and space. You, with your—let us say—four-and-twenty years have seen many more countries and come into contact with many more men than I have during the thirty-five years of my life. Why is it so? Because you are free. Because your father never constrained you to live according to the dictates of a small and exclusive caste, because no husband was perpetually warning you to be careful lest your conduct might jeopardize his position, because no one was for ever noting every step you took. Can you deny this? Are you not free?"

She lay on her low couch, cowering as it were, her great knees drawn up and outlined through her draperies. Now she lifted her gold-crowned head towards the slim white apparition beside her. Diana slowly rose to her feet.

"Yes, I am free," she exclaimed, with a joyous ring. She turned towards the window, holding her arms straight out before her as if bearing a gift. She did not look at the questioner, but, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare, she seemed to be following the movements of a vision. A pause ensued. Then she slowly dropped her arms, and said gloomily: "Only experience can show how hard a thing freedom is."

"I am not afraid of it," came in sonorous tones from where the countess lay. "I used to ride wild horses until I had broken them in—why should I dread freedom?"

Diana was suddenly aware of a feeling of hostility towards this woman who seemed to grudge her her freedom. A dull sense of resentment moved her to ask:

"And now? You said 'used.'"

The countess sat up, and gripped her hair which began to tumble about her shoulders.

"I had a fall."

As if enraged by the recollection, she flung open one of the shutters and was suddenly flooded with the full light of day. Her great arms were raised to the glory of her hair which rippled in golden plenty down her back; her deep bosom rose and fell in mourning and longing. Diana regretted having asked the question. She stepped up to Olivia and said shyly:

"You are beautiful."

The countess's gloomy eyes gazed down at her, seeming to drink in the younger woman's fiery spirit as she stood there in her short white frock, her skin burned by sun and wind, silent, waiting. Then, in a softer tone Olivia said:

"No, Diana, it is you who are beautiful."

Gregor came in as she finished speaking. The women drew apart. He begged Diana to stay, but she excused herself, pleading a previous engagement. He was taken aback by the chilly manner of her farewell, and looked down from the window as she drove away.

He paced up and down wondering what could have been the gist of this short interview. When, later, he questioned Olivia as to what she thought of Diana, the countess replied laconically:

"I like her."

CHAPTER SIX

"We should be very much to blame," answered the baroness when next morning, as they were getting up, the baron, still in his pyjamas, had told all his suspicions concerning Diana—carefully suppressing, as was natural, any details unfavourable to himself. "We should be very much to blame," repeated the lady with emphasis as she sat before her mirror pencilling her eyebrows, "very much to blame, indeed, if we failed to keep our eyes on her. The chief is all but in love with her, and from what you tell me of her antecedents, this German, or Polishwoman..."

"Maybe a Jewess..." interjected Linnartz.

"... this person will suit our book better than any of the Levantine women who have hitherto ministered to his happiness. I shall send her an invitation..."

"Invite her to my house!" exclaimed the man, his thoughts flying back to that shameful and unique meeting of long ago.

"Yes, I'll invite her here so that he may meet her. You are a poor diplomatist, my dear. At the same time I shall be earning the countess's gratitude by taking Gregor off her hands, for she seems to be interested in that abstruse young man...."

"All right. Ask 'em to lunch."

"Luncheon! What are you thinking of? That will cost at least two hundred francs, and with champagne, even if we cut ourselves down to a couple of bottles and have it served late, it will run us into another fifty at least. No, no. We'll ask them to tea, thé intime; and I'll see to it that he will think I am having a special at-home day in her honour."

She was struggling with her bodice, and the baron who rarely assisted at his wife's toilet, was much interested in her doings. He came near and began to take husbandly liberties, whereupon she protested:

"Oh, please—do leave me alone!"

"There, there, Gertrude, why not?..."

By the time Count Gregor entered the baroness's exiguous drawing-room the other guests had assembled and were sitting among the many-coloured cushions in lively conversation. The prince was just saying to Diana:

"I am fond of Sicily, but to see it at its best it should be visited at the height of summer. Palermo in August and Christiania in January, that is the ideal."

"What lovely temperatures you are conjuring up, Prince," said Gregor kissing Diana's hand after greeting his hostess. "Is he telling the truth?"

"He is quite right," answered Diana helping to serve the guests with iced drinks. "I've always felt the same."

"Unfortunately the Germans are accustomed to extremes of climate. Is it to be wondered at that southerners are more harmonious? Between February and June we have to accommodate ourselves to a leap up from zero to about 90 degrees in the shade, and we are expected after that to be a harmonious people!"

Diana looked at him and said with a laugh:

"Who expects it of us, Count Münsterberg? One either is or isn't!"

"Very well, then, one has it," he said softly, trying to capture her hand.

"Is this a new parlour game?" asked the prince. "If so, I'd like to learn it."

Diana sat there, her laughing face shaded by a large black tulle hat, light of heart, full of youthful sportiveness, her hands stretched out on either side towards the two men who had simultaneously pressed their lips to them, two men differing vastly both as to age and character. From the next room, four eyes were watching her inimically, for the host and hostess had retired with Eckersberg to look at the libretto of a new operetta recently produced in Berlin, the notices of which had reached the officer that morning.

"We should arrange an expedition to the temple so as to put these theories of summer travel in the East to a test. At the same time we could provide a little excavation work for Mademoiselle, get back the next day... What say you, my dear Baroness?"

"Charming, Count Münsterberg! I have some plans of the temple, and perhaps we could take along Burkhardt, and Curtius's studies, maybe even Winckelmann..."

"Special camel for a travelling library," laughed Eckersberg.

The whole company gathered round the table.

"Won't the countess join the party?" put in Linnartz, wishing to make trouble. But the count answered composedly:

"I fear not. She rather dreads long excursions on horseback, or any exertion in summer."

"We shall, therefore, be only six candidates for death by sunstroke," said the irrepressible Eckersberg.

The count quickly calculated which of his two assistants would hinder him least. He was fully aware of Linnartz's malevolent intentions, but at the same time he knew that the officer was far more efficient in an emergency and would be a greater menace to his plans if...

"My good fellow, one of us must stay behind. We cannot evacuate the embassy. Of course the secretary is enormously our superior in the management of affairs, still, we cannot leave him to shoulder the whole responsibility. So either you or Linnartz must stay, and, since the baron could not possibly entrust the baroness alone to our tender cares..."

Eckersberg sank his head, with a comical expression of woe.

"Kismet, or as it has recently become the fashion to say, Kâder! I withdraw my candidature, retire weeping from the scene, ladies."

No sooner had her guests taken their departure than the baroness burst out with: "Did you see?"

"Come here," called her husband from the window.

Gregor and Diana had bade the other two farewell, and were now walking away together. A long, slowly rising avenue lay before them, and they strolled up it in the deep shade of a late afternoon. At last they were alone. She had been so constantly in Gregor's thoughts lately, that he had established a kind of intimacy with her in his mind, so that when he now spoke there was a tone of affectionate camaraderie in his voice.

"I do hope you like the idea of a trip to this temple."

She gave him a kindly look, saying:

"I know the place well from pictures."

"Burkhardt, Curtius, Winckelmann," he said, mimicking the baroness's stilted way of talking. "Good Lord, poor woman!"

"She is false," put in Diana curtly.

"Well, well, what harm can she do?"

"A great deal." Then after a pause: "Surely it is unwise to ignore your enemies."

"Enemies? They leave me cold. But those at home, in Germany..."

"Well, they must have servants on the spot."

"One of my assistants in all probability. That is the custom...."

"Those two are the only ones," said Diana with a note of asperity in her voice.

Gregor, surprised at her petulance, and assuming that it was on his account, interpreted her mood as a sign of her inclination towards himself. They continued their walk, and he looked down into her face, saying very simply:

"I am happy to think that you are vexed with somebody on my behalf."

Her voice was unusually cordial as she answered:

"It is better not to have to feel vexed. Wellwishing is a more fruitful thing than ill wishing! All beautiful things begin in friendliness. Then it seems as if the sun were rising. Sometimes I feel that we should always stop at the beginning..."

He felt a glow creeping over him, and was about to speak when a passer-by took off his hat to her, and her lips, which had remained slightly apart on the unfinished sentence, snapped together.

"Who was that?"

"I don't know."

Gregor glanced over his shoulder and recognized Andreas who, likewise, had turned round to have another look at them.

"It was our young poet," said the count cheerfully. "He's in love with you; he has turned about to look at you again."

"Why me in especial?"

"Don't you like him?"

Diana deigned no reply. He persisted: "Don't you, for instance, prefer him to me?"

Diana, whose pace had slackened, whose eyes had become dreamy, whose lips were dumb, now slowly turned her head away as she thought:

"Why must men always try to probe our inclinations by setting up comparisons? Why are they incapable of making the best of the present? How vain they are, one and all! Still, this man has blue eyes and the heart of a boy, in spite of his grey hair and his title."

Her long silence made him uneasy.

"Have I offended you?" he said very tenderly, his manner almost that of a wooer. "All I meant was ... you have ... you hardly know him as yet."

Again Diana had nothing to answer, while she mused:

"What fools men are! In spite of all their titles and their renown and their grey hairs, what fools! He does not know that I loved that young man a little while back, does not know that the young man is now in love with the countess. All he wants to know is whether I love him!"

Andreas's sensitive nature made him keenly aware of the bond between these two, and his heart felt lighter, for, poet though he was, the young man in him was relieved at being able to shift some of the reproach of his own unfaithfulness upon Diana's shoulders. After their unexpected meeting he had kept out of her way, and had likewise avoided seeing as much of Olivia as his feelings prompted him to do. His mind was troubled. At bottom he was frightened of both women, and unsuccessfully endeavoured to fall back upon himself.

He tried to get an audience with the Austrian representative, but every move on his part was wrecked on the shoals of ministerial red tape, was frustrated by suspicion on the part of those in command. Nor was he himself less to blame, for his own energies were being sapped by his dreamy absence of mind, and the confusion in his thoughts consequent upon the motley character of the political life into which he wished to enter.

Olivia, being by nature chary of words, seemed to condone his silence. He had visited her twice since the day of the luncheon party, and the atmosphere of tension that surrounded her as she gazed mutely into the depths of his gloomy and passionate heart, roused him to so great a state of expectancy that he could bear the meetings no more. He was resolved not to seek her out again till the omens were more propitious. Olivia had seemed to promise him all he longed for, but no word of love had been spoken between them.

On the Friday morning Andreas received a letter addressed in a bold and virile handwriting. The message it contained ran as follows:

"They are all going for an excursion next Sunday. Come and dine with me at eight. Don't bother about evening dress.

"O. M."

CHAPTER SEVEN

They had started early, for it would be impossible to do anything but lie off in the hours from eleven to three. In this part of the world, few persons made such excursions in July. One day was amply sufficient to reach the temple, and they wanted to enjoy the road and the vistas and viewpoints in the cool of the morning. The ride was, therefore, divided into two five-hour spells: one in the forenoon, the other in the evening hours. Gregor and Diana had taken the lead at first. But the guide persistently encroached upon their duologue, expatiating upon his splendid qualities in an amazing mishmash of languages. This disconcerted the pair, who by degrees allowed the others to overtake them while they dropped to the rear.

The party had swelled to become a veritable caravan, for since the tents and provisions for two days had been packed upon horses, the six westerners required twelve orientals to act as grooms, servants, and guides.

On the previous evening, Captain Kopp had arrived from Berlin to take up his duties as naval attaché, the post having been vacant for several weeks. He immediately presented himself to pay his respects to the ambassador and his wife and to report for duty. His hosts were equally nonplussed, and both cudgelled their brains for a means of ridding themselves of the unwelcome guest. The count felt he could not leave him with Eckersberg in charge at the embassy, for though as military and naval attachés they would naturally be antagonistic, their mutual distrust of "diplomats" would make them allies in this field. First impressions are so important.... If, on the other hand, Kopp came with the party to see the temple, an extra pair of observant eyes would be following every incident.... The countess was thinking: Here is a man who takes his work seriously; he'll plunge into his job without delay so that, after the manner of his kind, when his chief gets back he will be able to say: "I've quite got the hang of things, Your Excellency." They had once before had a man like that, who had often not left his office till late at night, and she was determined that this particular evening there should be no one about to spy upon her. Thus it was that, when the subject of the morrow's excursion came up for discussion, at the dinner table, she turned amiably to the newcomer, and said:

"Of course you will join the party, Captain Kopp? It will give you a chance at the outset of making acquaintance with the interior, and that is not always easy to manage in the height of summer."

"I should be delighted, if His Excellency will not mind my coming..."

Gregor, who had penetrated his wife's manœuvre, glanced at her now across the table. She looked the picture of innocence, but he knew this mood of assumed tranquillity just as well as all her other ruses. He felt obliged to say something:

"A pleasure I assure you, if you feel that so soon after your long journey... It is hard on those not accustomed to the climate...."

"If you have no objection, Sir, I'd like to come."

When their guest had gone, the count turned to his wife, asking indifferently:

"How do you propose spending the next two days?"

"I hardly know."

"Paying calls?"

"No!"

"Expecting any one?"

"Nobody particular. Perhaps I shall ask young Seeland to look in."

"Alone?"

She raised her heavy head. She had hitherto been attentive and watchful, trying to find out if he had any suspicions. Now, however, she said very calmly:

"Of course, if I invite him he'll come alone. You know how much I dislike having more than one guest at a time. Have you any objection?"

"Good-night, Olivia."

"Good-night."

The baroness had at the outset taken possession of Captain Kopp, and all had gone well until she tried to pump him for news of what was going on at the Admiralty. Then, without obvious discourtesy, he drew the Levantine guide into the conversation, plying him with questions which the man was only too eager to answer. This suited the captain, who had joined the party simply in order to learn.

The prince, who had a smattering of the language, liked to gossip with camel drivers, fruit venders, and dragomans. Today, likewise, he would have been better entertained in converse with the horse drivers, but he had first of all to devote himself to the baron, who wished to discuss international politics.

Gregor observed him from the rear and said to Diana:

"Just look at our long-legged prince. What a picture of misery he is on his little Anatolian mount. His feet almost touch the ground. From here he might well pass for Don Quixote—but then Linnartz would have to be promoted to the rôle of Sancho Panza!"

It was eight o'clock. There were two good hours of cool before they need stop; the sun was considerate and the dust not unbearable. The parched, grey steppe stretched away into endless distance, and the low range of hills where they planned to camp that night looked quite unattainable. Diana had discarded the skirt which she had donned to ride through the town, and was now in khaki breeches and jacket, with leggings to the knee. There was nothing to distinguish her as a woman save the soft white-silk collar which peeped above the loose coat. She looked like a boy of sixteen whose parents, in the fondness of their hearts, had not yet had the courage to clip his curls. As always when exploring an unknown countryside, Diana was silent for a while. Those camels on the sky-line looked like some primeval phantasmagoria emerging from the dust-laden air. Then, alert and observant, she plied her companion with questions. While answering her, the count dropped half a length behind, and it seemed to him as he looked at her that he was riding alongside his own son, eager to know. He dwelt for a moment very pleasantly in this vision.

The ironical words he had indulged in anent the prince and the baron were the first he had uttered of a personal nature. Even now she was loath to be distracted from her contemplation of the landscape, which, far from appearing monotonous, seemed filled with strange and wonderful things. It was, therefore, with an effort that she responded to his gayer mood.

"As far as misanthropical outlooks are concerned, our prince would fit the part well, but he is too strongly disillusioned to be a genuine Don Quixote. As for the baron, to turn him into a faithful servitor..."

"You dislike him even more than I, it would appear, and perhaps..."

"Perhaps my dislike for him is greater than his for me? I'll wager he's started intriguing against me already."

"Hardly. But I fancy he must have met you before."

Diana pulled up and forced the count to come alongside.

"Well?" she asked.

"Let me see—was it St. Petersburg he said?"

"He told you—he...?" Diana's tone was so strange that Gregor pricked up his ears.

"Has he any reason to—if I may ask...?"

"Baron Linnartz has dared to..." said Diana, suddenly imitating the shrill manner of an indignant dowager. But Gregor guessed that her merry parody hid real mortification, and he felt incensed against the man who had caused it by such preposterous warnings against her. When next he spoke there was a note of resolution in his voice.

"Would it be too much to ask you for an explanation?"

She evaded the issue by laughing gaily, and setting spurs to her mount.

The little Anatolian horse had been longing for a gallop over the steppe, and eagerly responded to her mood. With curls dancing in the breeze of her own going, she flew past the baroness and Kopp, flew past the prince, the guide, and her personal enemy. Abdul, electrified by this sudden departure, careered at her side, his black ears flapping, his white hindpaws seeming to be several seconds in advance of their dark brothers in front. He sped like a swarthy cloud over the arid plain. For a moment the suddenness of her flight took Gregor so much by surprise that he could only gaze after her, thinking that she looked like a wild creature gone mad with love, or an amazon raging to the attack. Then he, too, set spurs to his horse and galloped after her. The company grew uneasy.

"The count seems to be having a little private racing party on his own," said the baron, who was a poor horseman at the best of times.

"She has a fine seat," murmured the prince emphatically.

"Amazing," observed the captain.

"Yes, she rides well," added the baroness. "One might think one were in a circus. I mean..."

Diana sped onwards, with half-closed eyes, unconscious of everything except the swiftness of her flight and the hound at her side. When at last the count overtook her, she laughed back at him, crying through the dust and whirl raised by their movements, like some uncanny sprite of the wilderness:

"Hello, Count Münsterberg! Hic et ubique! Small horses, but full of fire! A whip! If only I had a whip!"

He tried to pass his to her, but she merely laughed and motioned it away:

"Not now. Then!"

Her horse leapt forward again, and she said no more, though from time to time Abdul's name dropped from her lips.

Gregor was a changed being. As he galloped he forgot the conversation which had immediately preceded the mad ride; and therefore the word "then" she flung at him about the whip was the more puzzling. No matter! His youth rose once more within him with all its madness. It was as if thirty years had fallen away, and he was once more pursuing that woman on horseback—were they not riding through an English park?—who had galloped before him, throwing him words of love over her shoulder. Then, the lady's habit had flapped against the horse's flank, and from under the brim of her stiff hat two grey eyes had peered out, the eyes of a mature and passionate woman. Memories crowded upon him, the wild career to the very door of the house, the dash up the stairs, the tearing off of her riding habit, ten minutes' frenzy, away again, somebody catching sight of him, the challenge, two shots, the husband wounded...

"Am I indeed younger? Has this young amazon, luring me on through the dust and over the steppe, has she gifts to give me such as those of that older woman? I would like to—I will..."

Suddenly Diana's horse shied; it reared, and for a moment things looked nasty. The count sprang to her side.

"Diana," he cried, seizing the rein and pacifying the little animal. As they continued on their way, jogging along at an easy trot, Gregor was a little perturbed at having unintentionally called her by name, and felt distinctly embarrassed as he said:

"What a splendid horsewoman you are! I believe—I do hope you'll forgive me—but you have such a lovely name. How do you like mine?"

"Gregor," whispered she, and he felt happy at the thought that perhaps her lips had already framed the syllables in secret. "Gregor," she repeated, crisply this time, with a glance in his direction. "Something untamed and yet serious—maybe it suits you well these days—— Forgive me my escapade, Count."

Like all men whose conquests have been easily achieved, Gregor was full of hopes. The fact that she had spoken his name was sufficient to confirm him in the belief that she had a liking for him. He pressed closer, so that the horses' flanks were actually in contact, and asked:

"Why don't you call me Gregor again—Diana?"

"Because we are no longer flying over the steppe."

"When shall we fly again?"

"Nikt nie wie."

"What does that mean?"

"It's Polish for: No one knows."

With the neat movement of a jockey, she turned in her saddle and called to the others, though they lagged too far behind to hear her words:

"Come on! Can't any of you ride? Is he the only one who can ride?"

Then she said abruptly, with a twinkle in her eyes:

"That reminds me. Baron Linnartz, St. Petersburg, Grand Hotel. I owe you an explanation. Well, here goes! Some one with an aggressively scrubby moustache keeps his eyes on me morning, noon, and night, for a whole fortnight. Tries every method of approach. Then one evening I come from the drawing-room, it's very late, I get into the lift—the baron! I'd noticed him doing sentry-go as it were for hours down below. He does not get out at his floor but at mine. Follows me along the passage to my room. I open the door, enter, and turn to close it again. Suddenly someone springs forward, comes right into the room, seizes hold of me, throws me on to the sofa. It takes me several seconds before I can get my teeth into his hand. A bite, he kisses, lets go. I am still lying under him, but I get one hand free, then the other. I grip him by the throat, so!—When his face was blue and he began to gasp, I released him. I had no whip. He slunk away.—Since then I never go about alone without this little fellow." She drew a small revolver from her pocket, then in a loud voice she exclaimed: "And that's the man, Count Münsterberg, who is doing his best to discredit you at headquarters!"

Gregor quickly surveyed the situation. It placed the baron in a new light, for the count never doubted the truth of the St. Petersburg incident. He was more deeply than ever intrigued by the many-sided personality of his companion. This was now the sixth time they had seen each other, and at each encounter she had presented herself in a different guise. How coolly she had related the unpleasant adventure! And those last words, the way she had referred to headquarters—only a person well versed in politics could have put all the implications she had into that brief assertion. She seemed disposed to be silent now, turned her horse about, and slowly rode back to rejoin the others.

"Who won?" cried the prince as they drew near. "Abdul seems to have doubled the parts of starter and judge!"

"Mademoiselle, of course; she won by I don't know how many lengths," said Gregor beaming at the prince. He was specially grateful that Diana's escapade should have been so deftly handled and its apparent hoydenishness masked by a well-turned joke.

They pitched their camp at noon beneath a cluster of tall eucalyptus trees which were distinguishable from the all-pervading grey of the surrounding vegetation only by their height and by the rustling of their long, thick leaves. Otherwise everything seemed to consist of sand and dust. The midday heat shimmered over the steppe; far away on the horizon, faint, undulating lines were dimly visible. Could they be hills? A few clay walls spoke of scattered villages nestling among sparse clumps of trees. Grey horses and drab camels browsed in countless numbers on the parched herbage, or stalked in long processions like ghosts across the waste.

The guide had hoped to find a spring at this spot, where he could water the horses. But there proved to be too little flow, and the beasts had to be taken farther afield. The human travellers, however, fared well, for they had brought every imaginable thing with them, not forgetting the most important item of all: ice. The cloth was spread in the marquee, and the food was appetizing. But the heat was too oppressive for much talk; indeed, at this moment they were all wishing they had not set forth on the excursion.

Diana had donned her skirt again, and was on her best behaviour, demure, and endeavouring in every way to fall in with the baroness's humour. Both Gregor and the prince were puzzled as to what she was thinking about. "I wonder whether the recalling of that incident has upset her," mused the count, "or whether the presence of the baron is making her reserved?" When the meal was over, each one sought relaxation, some in sleep, others in quiet talk. Kopp came over to Diana and sat beside her, puffing away at his cigarette.

"I say, I'd give anything to ride like that," he began.

She laughed, trying to turn the matter off.

"I expect you won a prize or two in Kiel?"

"Yes, a few. I bet you know how to sail a boat."

"I'm fond of the sea."

"Been far afield?"

"Fairly."

"Indian Ocean?"

"No. The Atlantic."

"Some day you must go sailing in the Indian Ocean. That's the finest of them all."

"Tell me about it."

Diana was a good listener as well as an eager questioner, so Kopp began to tell his story, haltingly at first, in fragmentary fashion, like others of the seafaring confraternity. And all the while she was listening, her thoughts travelled vaguely to and fro. "Here I lie in a tent on an eastern steppe, and this seafarer is telling me of shellfish and pearls, of sharks and torches, while over there sits the count discussing business matters with the baron, hate in his heart, hated in his turn by Linnartz, and thinking of me by name. Did he not call me by my name as if I were a friend of long standing, as if he wished to guard me, and yet with the pertness of a boy? Nikt nie wie!"

The count liked Captain Kopp. True, he had found the newcomer's bald bullet head rather comical at first, but it did not take the count long to detect the man's sterling worth. When they broke camp in the cool of the afternoon, he made a point of riding next his naval attaché.

"Have you had an opportunity for a talk with any of our people lately, Captain?" he asked. "Seen the foreign secretary, for instance?"

"About three weeks ago. Dinner together at the club. Hardly had a word with him."

"He's said to be very pessimistic, eh?"

"I fancy he is. Some one who had just been having a long talk with him said he saw everything through grey spectacles. Herr Scherer it was who made the remark."

"Ah, yes. I know."

"A most interesting man, that."

"I feel sure he is.—What does Herr Scherer think about the situation here?"

"Scherer has absolute confidence in what Your Excellency does."

As a rule the count disliked compliments; he knew too well their insincerity, especially when paid to a man in his position. But this captain with the bullet head was so simple and so obviously sincere; Münsterberg could only be interested.

"Did Scherer say that?" he asked.

"Yes, he did."

The three words were spoken with the deliberation of a man who knew how much worth his interlocutor would place upon them. Gregor was satisfied. He broke off his talk with the captain in order to rejoin Diana who was riding with the baroness. The younger woman had been making vain attempts to draw the lady out. As the count came alongside, he said:

"Have you ever made a study of archæology?"

"Oh no, I'm only an amateur."

"That's much the pleasantest way of getting to know things," commented the baroness with a note of hostility in her voice. "When one is free to travel about the world—to study the world..."

"Yes, travelling is a good master," interrupted Diana, controlling an impulse to retaliate, and speaking in quiet, conventional tones.

"But somewhat exhausting," said Gregor.

He and Diana trotted forward alone.

"So you have known Scherer some time," he said after a pause.

"Not long."

"Is he interested in artistic matters also?"

"He is a thinker."

Her answer disquieted Gregor. Somehow he felt she was making comparisons, and his pride forbade him to accept a subordinate place in the estimation of such a woman as Diana.

"How do you make that out...?"

She guessed that he was piqued, and answered soothingly:

"Surely his way of looking at the world is enough to prove it."

"Yes; but suppose some one has, by devoting his whole life, chary of words but prolific in deeds, by his decisions and his enterprise, supposing such a one, too, has built up a world...?"

"He'd just be a good business man," retaliated Diana, "and Herr Scherer is that in addition to all his other qualities."

Gregor was not satisfied. He rode on for a while rather moodily, and then resumed:

"Which sort do you prefer?"

"So much depends on the time and the place, upon the wind, and the stars...."

"Let us say: Today!"

"Today I am thinking of the better rider," laughed Diana.

The steppe had cooled down, and riding was pleasant now. At certain spots where water was abundant, the evergreen plants looked fresh, and their stunted forms peeped through the trees and the stones. There were tiny ilexes and myrtles; even a laurel here and there. The shadows of the trees were lengthening over the plain, and the hills seemed within a hopeful distance. Every one felt that the worst part of the journey was over, that the reward of their efforts was at hand, and that tomorrow's return to the town overlooking the water would be easy. Soon after six, when the sun was sinking and the plain was taking on a myriad new and glowing hues, when the fresh breeze came from the hills, the spirits of the company rose, and conversation flowed once more. They spoke sceptically of the prospects of sleep under canvas that night; they sentimentalized about the temple. Kopp said:

"I've been told that this place is red with poppies in April."

"But it is only at this time of the year that you find the place so exquisitely covered with dust that it looks one vast uniform mass," added the prince. "Only now! I could ride for weeks on end through this dusty steppe; heat and dust are such admirable adjuncts to muddy thinking."

"You are pleased to be paradoxical," protested the baroness. "Everything in this country is far more poetical in April."

"I am the enemy of all that smacks of poetry, Baroness; still more do I hate the romantic. I'm thinking of starting an insurance scheme to protect the world against falsification of nature by means of moonrises, stars, colours, and the like."

Diana laughed heartily; the baroness tried to giggle, but the dust had dried her throat and her effort was futile. Gregor was busily going this way and that in search of a good camping ground. Nor would he allow his three attachés to help him. Then he made them all turn back a little way, and finally gave them leave to dismount. There was a bustle of preparation, the horses were unsaddled and watered, the tents were pitched. The count was suddenly pensive. After a while he called out:

"There are four; that's fine!"

To which the baroness made reply:

"Yes, splendid. One for you, one for the prince, one for us two women, and the fourth will be shared by the captain and my husband."

"Pas du tout, Madame," the count was quick to interpose, for he had expected the baroness to suggest such an arrangement. "I could never forgive myself if two married folk like you and my dear Linnartz were divorced from one another's arms even for one night. You and your husband must have the large tent; the other big one must be shared by the prince and the captain—if they don't mind sleeping together? Otherwise, I shall be delighted to berth with one or the other."

"Of course, of course," chimed in the two men with one voice.

"Very well; and I'll have the little one to myself." He stopped abruptly, for he was loath to couple Diana's name with his own. But the prince, realizing what was in his chief's mind, added with a spice of malice:

"What about the fourth? Ah, yes, of course, I'm so sorry, of course that will be for Fräulein de Wassilko."

For an hour past Gregor had been making his plans, and had chosen a site that suited them admirably. It was a narrow strip of level, lying in a semicircle intersected by mounds which cut the camp up into sections. He contrived to have his tent pitched at the lower end, then the other small one. The horses were to be littered down next this, separating them from the two large tents at the other end of the passage. But when the work was done and they came to inspect it, he assumed a wrath he was far from feeling:

"What's this!" he exclaimed. "Those two little tents have been put up in the place where I had ordered the big tent to be pitched. We'll have to start over again. What a nuisance! Oh, well, perhaps we can manage after all. Or shall I get them changed?"

"Capital as they are," some one exclaimed.

They ate their supper on the slope of a hill, and watched the daylight fade while the moon rose. Diana was very quiet, almost one might say absent-minded. She ran her fingers through the herbage, picked the twigs from off her rug, whispered to the night-birds and the beasts that came shyly peering round the rocks, stroked the long velvety ears of the greyhound. They all sought their tents while the night was young, for they wished to be afoot before sunrise. Gregor called for a bowl of water, then sent the man away to sleep. He himself kept vigil. Should he venture? Was he really more than twenty-five? Was he his own son? He felt so young and could think of nothing but the moment when she had uttered his name as she flew over the steppe: "Gregor!"

Diana had closed her tent in order to discard her habit and slip into a cool, silk kimono. Now she flung back the flap and sat on the ground at the mouth of the tent in the crouching attitude of a gypsy. She slowly rolled back her wide sleeves, thinking the while: "How well this orange-coloured silk matches the tent and the steppe." As her gaze travelled to the sky and over the moon-shriven land, she had hardly a thought in her head. Then, suddenly, she was musing again: "How otherwise account for all these preparations? ... Can a woman ever truly know the man who desires her without first giving him what he wants? ... He has a finely turned leg, and there's a look of youth in his blue eyes, and he rides as well as I, better than any man I've known since Bogdanoff, the maddest of lovers.... Of one thing at least I am certain: grey locks make a stronger appeal to me this night than any fair head could...."

Gregor made a tour of the camp before turning in. He took mental note of where each tent stood. Then he secured Abdul to a tree at the farther end of the camp, bidding him lie down and be quiet. Slowly he returned to his tent. He waited. One by one the lights were extinguished, silence brooded over the land, only the horses, rubbing their heads together, made a soft, velvety sound. Diana's tent was dark. Was she sitting within, dreaming? Or was she waiting—for him? Had she not once spoken words of condemnation against women who were "prim and prudish"? Was she unaware of the effect such words would have upon a man of his temperament? There had been no preliminary skirmishes. Everything would depend on the success of one single move. He had to take a risk such as, owing to his position, he had not ventured for at least twenty years—or was it only fifteen since he had given chase to the beautiful Beata...?

This last memory stirred the fires of his imagination. He rose and stood for a while at the mouth of the tent, listening. As if the better to hear, he raised himself on the tips of his toes. Then he fastened his tent from without, and crept softly towards the spot where her tent reared its point into the night sky. Two resolute strides brought him to the entry. He seized the tapes and secured the flap behind him. He was inside.

CHAPTER EIGHT

At the very hour when Gregor entered Diana's moonlit tent, the countess sat at dinner with Andreas.

The small marble table at which they were dining was in a remote corner of the garden, and the old butler who served them shook his head patiently over this new whim of his mistress. Since the nook the countess had chosen was so small as not to admit of a sideboard of any kind, the man had to make the best of an ivy-clad stump whereon to place his dishes. In the end, he had contrived everything in so tasteful and charming a way, that when Olivia led her guest into the enclosure through an archway cut in the hedge, she smiled her gratitude and appreciation to her faithful servitor. In her own peculiar and anarchistic way she was always more courteous and considerate to her servants than it was customary for women in her station to be. Consequently she was, as a mistress, at once more respected and more often cheated than most. As soon as the dessert had been placed on the table, she made a sign to the butler, who promptly disappeared within doors. As soon as he had gone, she said:

"You are worried about something."

"Yes."

"What has happened?"

"Othello, I've lost him."

"What, the Great Dane you told me about and have always refused to bring to see me?"

"Today I did bring him. It's the first time for pretty well a fortnight that I've taken him for a walk through the town. I've usually let him out for a run in the hotel park. Well, we got here at eight. In the vestibule, Othello began snuffing around. I told him to lie down and wait while I went into the office to see if there were any letters for me—you know I'm having all my correspondence sent here because I can't stand the idea of every letter being mauled about and examined by my worthy Austrian compatriots. I'd hardly been absent three minutes, yet when I came back Othello was nowhere to be seen. In all the four years since we have lived together the dog has never given me the slip before."

"Have you any idea as to where he may have gone?"

Andreas did not answer, and she had a shrewd suspicion that he guessed the dog's whereabouts. She had all along been wondering why Andreas was so set against bringing Othello to see her, and guessed that the dog was associated in his mind with some poignant memory or other. Could it be that of another woman? She had been too immersed in her own dreams and yearnings to pursue the matter further. And now, tonight, when at last they were alone with the chance of enjoying one another's company undisturbed, was their evening to be spoilt because of the vagaries of a dog? Resolutely she set herself to win the man.

During the fifteen years of her married life Olivia had had very few evenings at her own free disposal. Gregor had been raised to ambassadorial rank ten years ago, and about the same time he had resumed his life of adventurous love affairs. This might have given her the freedom she needed, but she very seldom made use of her opportunities, far seldomer than her nature might have led one to suppose. She instinctively shunned the homage of men of aristocratic birth, people of rank and station. Her womanhood craved for a love whose impetuous and turbulent waters should flow from inexhaustible springs of passion. The moment Andreas stood before her, she knew that his was the poet nature she had been awaiting all these years.

He for his part had been enmeshed in the coils of desire ever since he had beheld the superb form of this Venetian beauty reclining on the divan, had seen the passionate curve of the lips and throat, the golden glory of her hair. He knew in a flash that he was for her and she for him.

In silence, now, the two sat dreaming, wandering along the highways and byways of their memories. As Olivia watched the poet's face emerging into the light of the overhanging lampions and retreating into the shadows again, she knew that the memories crowding into the mind of this young man were richer than her own, but that in the realm of dreams hers was the more abundant recollection.

Andreas gazed at her across the table, and as he gazed, the agitation which had filled him since Othello's disappearance was gradually tranquillized. He forgot his trouble. Slowly he stretched his arm towards her, the back of his hand resting on the marble slab. Slowly she raised her full round arm and laid her shapely hand in his. They had never before touched one another. They had studiously avoided any contact which might raise desires they had no possibility of assuaging, for both were keenly aware of their own passionate natures. Now their hearts were filled with fear and hope. For the first time Andreas felt her hand in his. It lay dry and cool upon his palm. Slowly he bent forward, and put his lips to her arm. He was dimly aware that this first kiss was a foretaste of all that was to follow, and while he, with closed eyes, sank his lips into her white flesh, she leaned back and gazed earnestly down upon the dark head of her lover. When, after a long interval, he raised his eyes to hers, she got up and led him through the green archway and down towards the river. A wild and overgrown path led them to a crag whence they could see immemorial cedars stretching columnar arms skyward out of the immensity of the waters. The undergrowth had never been cleared in this spot, huge clusters of ferns pushed up through the tangle, the broom had thickened into veritable bushes, and cherry laurels, tall and impenetrable, had gathered around the trunks of the cedar trees. From below came the everlasting lap of the waters upon the stones, and, amid all these sounds of a primeval world, could be heard the pulsating paddle of a tiny steamer, far away, its twinkling lights reflected in the water.

To the poet, as he followed the pale gleam of Olivia's ample garments, it seemed that he was being led to the gates of death and that his guide was holding the fateful scales that should seal his doom. On reaching the top of the rocky eminence Olivia moved slowly towards the huge trunk of one of the cedars and leaned her back against it, a smile on her lips such as he had never seen there before, an expression he could never have expected to behold on this face, a look half shy and half alluring. Throwing wide his arms he folded her to him, pressing her against the tree, and pressing the back of his hands against the rough bark, while with the palms he felt the soft contact of her body and her hair. When at last the long kiss came to an end, the name he had spoken at their first meeting rose to his mind, but the sweet and melancholy gains of this present hour left no other wish but to utter the word he had whispered so many times during the last fortnight:

"Olivia!"

All that was woman in her responded to the man in him. She left the support of the tree and flung herself against him, pulled him to her in a closer and closer embrace, and pressed her lips to his as she murmured:

"Andreas!"

Two hours later he was once again in her great blue room. She had given him the key of a private door into the park and told him how he might find his way in. Then she had led him back to the house, had bade him good-night from the top of the wide steps that led down from the hall, and had sent her household to bed. He had wandered the streets, savouring his two hours' waiting as only a poet knew how. Certainty, postponement, security, a strategic device, hours of joy without end, one final delay, a stream of mixed sensations, coursed through his blood and flooded his brain, driving him and elating him. The practical necessity of keeping his eye on his watch so as not to miss the appointed hour merely served to whet his appetite and to render his expectations more acute. At last he turned the key in the rusty lock and groped his way to her room. At the door he came to a halt. He wished to relish the idea that here, two weeks ago, he had been ushered in, a stranger, where now he was privileged to enter as a lover.

The room was unlighted, but in the soft radiance of the moon he could see Olivia's outline on the shore that lay beyond the blue sea of carpet. Tonight, in one second, he flew to his haven of love. Without saying a word she drew him to her, flooding him in the waves of her long golden tresses. He pushed aside the white cloak that covered her, his hungry lips devouring the breasts she lifted towards him.

When, many hours later, Andreas rose from the couch, he shivered with cold, for he was naked, and Olivia, lying motionless, bade him put on a robe she had brought from Damascus, and which she loved. The moon had not set, and in its pale light Andreas in his long gold-embroidered gown, his raven hair disordered by her loving fingers, looked like an Arab, dark, slender, and burned by the hot summer sun. Her head pillowed on her arm, she lay there inert, gazing up at him. Then he heard the lovely alto voice saying:

"Hafiz!"

"Venetian beauty," was his quick response.

And she: "If I am ever to be loved by a Moor, I would have you for my Othello."

His face twitched, and she remembered too late what that name must mean to him. She quickly rose and came towards him:

"Andreas!"

She drew him to the window the better to read his countenance. Like black lace, the delicate tracery of the trees swayed against the night sky. The mighty stream flowed on, dreaming its dreams, softly murmuring to itself, no longer enlivened with the twinkling lights, while in the blue-black distance the line of the hills on the farther side of the river rose and fell along the horizon.

"Speak to me, Andreas."

She clasped him, and he, while fondling her hair, looked over and beyond her to those distant hills where Diana tonight was sojourning. "What is she doing? Is she gazing forth from her tent over the wide steppe, oblivious of the man who is kneeling at her feet?"

Olivia's eyes, too, had travelled to those same hills. Like the sound of distant drums she heard her memories marching by, heard the mad wooing of the count in the days when he had been her lover, heard his cynically wanton words as he had, increasingly, become the husband and nothing more. She saw Diana's compact breasts as the girl had stood before her dressed in a simple linen frock, saw Diana standing at her side in this same window, murmuring: "You are beautiful."

Andreas, too, felt peculiarly lucid. His brain seemed lighted up as a great hall will be lighted for a festivity. His memories radiated before him, never had he seen so clearly before. There was the statue in its niche, the statue of a naked amazon which had so often lured him to the Vatican last winter. The vision took on life; Diana herself stepped down from the niche and stood before him, but as he put out his hand to touch her, the figure of the count came between, and carried her off, laughing....

CHAPTER NINE

At the selfsame hour, Diana awoke. She lay on a big rug, looked around her with sleep-laden eyes, and tried to remember what had happened. Gregor was asleep. She shivered in the chill morning air, and drew a blanket off her camp-bed which had not been used, covering both herself and the man at her side. As she did so, she glanced down at him and smiled to see how childlike was his slumber. Had she moved too suddenly, or was it merely the consciousness that her eyes were upon him? Who can tell? But at that moment he awoke, turned quickly as if danger threatened, looked around, saw Diana, remembered all, and smiled in his turn. He leaned over her, bending her face back to kiss her.

The hour of his conquest over her had been a light-hearted one, sportive and gay. Everything had lent enchantment to their union, the spirit of adventure fired their blood, the fact that each shared the same secret and that only the thin canvas wall of the tent screened them from inquisitive eyes, the grass of the steppe on which they lay, the memory of every word they had exchanged, the expectant waiting, the hopes that had filled their hearts, the delicious novelty of appealing to one another without the exchange of a single syllable, the sense of solitude, the enforced silence which caution constrained them to, all this and a hundred other influences of time and place had carried the pair onward on a mighty wave of rapturous daring, so that it was as if two beasts of the wilderness were playfully endeavouring to overcome one another. The reawakened yearning to recapture his lost youth, a yearning which had filled Gregor's whole being since he had met Diana, had gradually disappeared as day followed day which was to lead to this excursion, to this night of fulfilment.

Diana had not repelled him, for she was a woman who never closed the doors on nature's impulses; and when she felt his sensitive hands trembling within her own, the words he longed to hear fell simply from her lips. The man, for all his experience of love, had been shy as a boy in his attitude towards the enigma of this woman; he who was used to command had besought; his grey hairs notwithstanding, he had wooed her like a youth; all this had touched her, rather than carried her off her feet. He himself was unaware of the unusual emotional stress which once more after the lapse of decades, had transformed the connoisseur into a bashful wooer and the spoilt darling of so many female hearts into one who must use all his arts of cajolery to induce his love to bestow her gifts upon him. His tenderness, his supplicating desire, had made her conclude that a great change, a change he was blissfully unaware of, had taken place in the man at her side.

The physical intimacy was, however, no more than the sign that his whole nature was about to enter a new springtime, for Gregor Count of Münsterberg, despite his many love adventures, had during these last ten years been a very lonely man. In the days when Olivia was everything to him he had come implicitly to rely on her, giving her his all with a lavishness not unlike Andreas's spendthrift love—though in other respects the two men's dispositions were in such complete contrast.

"Diana, have you slept? Are you cold? Would you like a glass of water?"

He tucked her up, solicitous for her comfort; he slipped his arm under her and petted and caressed her as if he had done her an injury. He could not look upon the events of that night with the eyes of a conqueror; he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, for she had been so tender and, as it seemed to him, had yielded to him through complaisance, rather than from passion. He whispered:

"Are you angry? Do you forgive me? Sweet Diana!"

She smiled as she replied, equally softly:

"You are good."

"Won't you call me by my name?"

"Gregor!"

"Once again."

"Gregor!"

"Ah, that was boldly spoken, as you said it today—no, yesterday, when we were riding together."

"Tell me, why did you call out Diana then?"

"Because I was thinking of you like that, just at the moment when your horse shied. Had you never thought of me by name?"

"Yes, once."

"When?"

"As you left me that day we talked about the motto on your coat-of-arms."

"And then you thought of me as Gregor. Only that once? I always thought of you as Diana whenever you came into my mind."

"When was that, I pray?"

"Constantly."

"Oh, come."

"It's true. Constantly; at breakfast: Diana will be going for a sail. While at work: that's not clear, not very practical—Diana would have done it better. At dinner: Diana has a fine palate for wines. Out riding, engaged in conversation, even while dictating dispatches, always Diana is in my thoughts, for she grasps my meaning, knows what I want, understands, so much quicker than any one else."

She raised herself on her elbow and leaned over him, stroked his hair, and pushed the grey locks away from his brow.

"How white your forehead is, how beautifully shaped," she whispered. Then she hummed very softly to herself, a velvety sound like that made by the drowsy horses outside as they rubbed their heads one against the other. "It's a pity to keep it hidden under this mass of grey hair. Have you ever tried brushing it back?"

"A high forehead makes a man look older. Besides, my hair is whiter still underneath. The way one wears the hair is a fine art which even Peter, my man, is incapable of achieving. I am always my own hairdresser."

"Why?"

He suddenly seized her by the hair:

"I wish your chestnut locks could stay that colour for ever."

"I don't wish it at all. Or, perhaps to be quite truthful, the wish might cross my mind occasionally. Still, I know that when my time comes I shall not pull one grey hair out. We must not run counter to nature."

"You believe that?" he asked, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "Am I running counter to nature when I...?" He stole a look at her, and waited for her to complete his thought. But she played with the fringe of the rug and held her peace. He took her hand, and bent towards her so as to compel her to look him in the eyes. "You might easily be my daughter..."

She answered very slowly:

"Say, rather, that you might well be my son."

Hand in hand the two sat gazing at one another, Diana and Gregor, on the rug widespread among the dry herbage of the steppe, in the softly diffused moonlight which struggled through the thin canvas of the tent.

What did Diana see?

The vision of this man in his youthful prime, transparent, so that the story of his life stood revealed. Those blue eyes had never blenched at what life chose to offer him. They had flashed upon the world their searching fires. Now their look was turned inward, earnest, and inexpressibly lonesome. Those lips, once so firm, were now sunk between furrows telling of a disillusionment in strange contrast to the strength expressed in the straight, high-pitched nose and the salient chin, proclaiming as they did the resolution with which this man sought power and ever more power in compensation for the loss of his capacity for enjoyment.

And Gregor, what were his thoughts while he sat in the pale light filtering through the tent as the moon set?

He felt as if he were coming into closer contact with humanity as a whole, not merely with the twenty-five year old creature at his side. He saw as it were in timeless and ageless shape, before her and behind her as she sat, the form of a child and of a woman. Slowly, the meaning of her last words and of his became disentangled from the vision. How explain the mystery of sexual union? He brooded upon this, not in relation to what had happened this night, but as something remote and intangible. How not shudder in the placid morning light at the madness of venturing to penetrate into the life of another being, and yet hope neither to kill that being nor to suffer death at its hands? He was painfully aware of the weight of the years that lay upon him. Had he not hitherto always been as a god showering happiness on the woman of his choice? But now, what had he to bestow on this young thing whose hand lay so confidingly in his own?

From those delicate lips that had kissed him last night as if their owner were asleep, from those cheeks whose oval was so pure, which sun and wind had bronzed and made so firm a setting for the face, from those short, boyish curls which seemed wilfully to renounce all womanly lure, above all from the solemn fire of her brown eyes, he drew so powerful a sense of vital security, so mighty an assurance of youth's everlasting renewal, that he was overwhelmed with gratitude and could only bow his grey head, kiss her hand, and rest his forehead in her lap.

She loosed the flap of the tent and threw it back without disturbing him. Far away on the eastward margin of the steppe the sky was pale with the earliest flicker of dawn. The tiny breeze came cold and sharp upon her, so that she drew the folds of the silk cloak tighter around her. For a moment she thought of a morning on the island when she had likewise waked up to find herself in the open. But the head resting in her lap that day had dark hair.... Where was Andreas now? Alone?

Many minutes went by before the grizzled man raised his head again. The blue eyes were so earnest that one might have thought they had never been aglow with laughter all yesterday. Slowly Gregor pulled aside the silken folds that covered her, and laid her bosom bare. His movements were tender and delicate, as with an artist's appreciation he passed his sensitive fingers over the small bronzed breasts, while Diana sat spellbound, motionless....

CHAPTER TEN

It was not yet five o'clock, but the party was already under way. The track was steep and rough, for few shepherds or travellers ever came to these remote and savage parts. In single file, they pushed up the hill, the horses stumbling through the stunted vegetation. The company was silent, each member deep in thought, each suspecting but unwilling to give words to the suspicion—although the baron and his wife had exchanged a word or two before breaking camp. Upwards in zigzags went the path leading to the temple, and only at the top-most bend would they have their first, amazing view of the object of their pilgrimage.

Kopp was the one to break the spell. His seaman's eye, accustomed to read the signs on vast expanses of water, was quick to detect a moving particle in the plain they had left behind. The speck halted, went this way and that, resumed its onward course, stopped again—it must be an animal.

"Can that be a wild beast?" he asked at length.

"Where?"

"Over there," he said pointing to the speck in the distance.

They reined in, and all eyes travelled in the direction of his finger.

"What the dickens can it be?"

"It's following the trail we made yesterday."

"Yes, look, now it's reached our camping place."

"It's a dog!"

"Impossible! That's not a dog's shape."

"But it is! A Great Dane."

"Extraordinary creature! One would think it was on our scent."

"Whose in particular do you think?"

"Who can tell!"

Diana it was who had exclaimed: "It's a dog!" On the instant she had recognized Othello, and knew whom he was in search of.

On came the dog, faster and ever faster, following the curves of the narrow path. All the party awaited his coming with ill-concealed excitement. Now he had passed the grooms and the pack horses. He was sobbing for breath as he loped by. At last he came to a standstill at Diana's side, and looked up at her, whining gently. She stooped in the saddle to pat his head while he, his front paws resting on the horse's flank, endeavoured to reach her. The horse was already in a fidgety mood, and as the dog's paws touched him, he sprang aside. Diana saw the danger. The precipitous descent yawned beneath her. In a trice she had leapt out of the saddle and had landed safely on the path, with Othello upon her.

But Abdul, misunderstanding the gesture, and already indignant at the big fellow's intrusion, broke away from his master and, barking and growling, hurled himself upon Othello, attacking the great beast from the rear. Pandemonium broke loose. In and out among the legs of the unhappy horses the two dogs went, the mountain rising sheer above and the precipice falling away beneath. The greyhound barked and yapped its fury; the Great Dane, dignified even in combat, protested with deep bass growls. The greyhound swift and dexterous in his movements, the other heavy and strong in his defence. Abdul had been knocked out by a tap from Othello's great paw, but the plucky little fellow was up and attacking again in a trice. Then the big dog gripped his assailant by the leg with his teeth and with one smack with his front paw sent the little beast rolling in the dust.

Diana had till now watched the fight in speechless amazement and fear, for she knew Othello's strength and could only hope Gregor's greyhound would be spared the full taste of the Great Dane's muscles. As Othello hurled his assailant from him, Diana seized the opportunity to call him to her side. He responded immediately, and with docile obedience went towards her while the count secured his own little beast. Othello placed his two front paws on Diana's shoulders, his head towering over her. Then he nestled his head in her neck while she patted him and spoke to him soothing endearments.

The rest of the company could only gape in foolish amazement, for none knew who this huge beast could be, and his size alarmed the natives who had never before seen a dog of such large proportions.

Baroness Linnartz was the first to recover her composure. She giggled shrilly and said:

"How touching!" Then turning to her husband she whispered: "Enigmatical creature! Fancy travelling about with a dog of that size and not even to keep it properly locked up and under control. Had you any idea she possessed such an animal?"

"I wonder how he tracked her down? We've been on horseback all the time," muttered the baron perplexedly.

"Quite within the realm of possibility. I had something much the same happen to me once," said Gregor.

All were now speaking at once, each telling of their own or other people's experience; even the natives by their gestures made it plain that they, too, had seen such a thing before. At last the caravan set forward again, the prince observing reflectively:

"It's enough to put us to the blush, an animal like that, running ten or at least eight hours on end and then, at the last, when he reaches his master, rejoicing as if he had found a saviour."

Kopp, who had been more deeply impressed than the others, said rather sententiously:

"What a beautiful picture we had when the dog put his paws on the young woman's shoulders!"

The prince had thought the same, but felt that if he expressed it in words he would be guilty of sentimentality, so he turned the conversation from this dangerous ground, and cried:

"Invasion of northern imperialism into the peninsula in the person of a Bismarckian dog!"

Abdul was put on the lead and taken to the rear, but no one ventured to take Othello's liberty from him. Gregor had dismounted, and had handed the bridles of his and Diana's horses to one of the grooms.

Diana, preceded by Gregor and with Othello at her heels, silently continued up the hill on foot. After his first demonstration, the dog had not shown any further sign of affection save when from time to time he rubbed his great head against her thigh. The count felt instinctively that Othello was a rival, or at least a creature who had robbed him of a part of her affection. He felt vexed, for his whole mind was absorbed in the endeavour to win her completely for himself. After a while he asked:

"Have you been hiding that superb animal from me all this time? Where was he that day I called on you at your hotel?"

"He does not belong to me."

"Not yours?" questioned Gregor tentatively.

"He lived with me some months ago. Now he's found out where I am and has followed me."

"It's all so perplexing. Diana, do tell me..."

"To me, life is a game, Gregor. On the deck of the ship in which I am voyaging the reflection of lights will fall from time to time, lights from the lands or the islands I have visited in times gone past. They turn and twist about as they cross my path. Then the ship sails once more into the shadows. Othello is a messenger from one of those isles. Can you understand?"

Gregor loved her to speak like this, although he knew quite well that she chose her words deliberately so as not to betray her secrets. He was too used to the intrigues inseparable from political life to allow himself to be beguiled by her smile, but he felt it wiser to subdue his feeling of jealousy, and therefore said loud enough for all to hear:

"Yes, a capital dog. But we'll have to keep him and Abdul apart. They're likely to be sworn enemies."

Diana, who, according to her wont, had read an omen into the encounter between the two dogs, was disquieted by these words, though Gregor himself had no ulterior meaning in his mind. For him they were nothing more than a plain statement of fact. But Diana looked at him searchingly, trying to plumb his strength, his vital energy. As she looked, another figure took shape beside Gregor, that of Othello's master. She contemplated them as two rivals, just as the dogs were, antagonists, and in a flash it was borne in upon her that these two men symbolized the everlasting clash between youth and age, age and youth.

Gregor, wholly unconscious of her searching observation, pursued his way up the mountain, deep in thought as to who could be the link between this animal and Diana. Who, he asked himself, was there in their mutual circle of acquaintances who took an interest in dogs? He tried to recall which among the many callers at the embassy had ever bent towards the ground in order to pat Abdul and to speak to him like a friend. Suddenly the young poet came into his mind. Yes, Andreas had noticed Abdul every time he had come to the house. Other recollections crowded upon him. Olivia's intention to ask young Seeland to dine with her yesterday evening! A multitude of possibilities jigged and capered before his eyes. He began to look upon his escapade of this night with the eyes of an ordinary member of society, became conscious of infidelity, a reproach he had never felt before in all his other love episodes. Without turning round he asked with as casual a tone as he could muster:

"Young Seeland seems to be a very interesting fellow, don't you think?"

Diana had been so engrossed in her own thoughts, vaguely musing on Andreas and the island, Andreas and Olivia, that she was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Her hand which had been stroking Othello's head as she walked, stopped abruptly, and her left eyelid twitched ever so slightly—the only sign she ever gave of being surprised. Controlling her emotion, however, she said very quietly:

"Yes, you are right."

"The countess speaks favourably of his poems. Do you happen to know them?"

"Fairly well."

"What do you think of them?"

"They're beautiful."

"I'll have to read them, then."

Diana was grateful that he did not pursue the conversation further.

The sun had not yet risen above the hill whose flank they had now been scaling for two hours. They were eager for the reward of their trouble and fatigue. Silence had fallen upon them again as they grappled with the steepest part of the ascent. The baroness, filled with curiosity and with ambition to be the first on the spot, had pushed forward so as to ride immediately behind the guide, who was a good way in advance of the main caravan. She was in the sunshine already, so the pass they were making for must be near at hand. Suddenly the quietude of this unpeopled mountain fastness was broken by a shrill cry. Baroness Linnartz, preening herself upon her victory, was hallooing down to them:

"Lovely! Better than Girgenti! Hurry up, do!"

She disappeared over the rise, followed by her husband.

Kopp, on arriving at the top, found nothing to say but: "Donnerwetter!"

The prince, coming up close behind him, whistled a fourth through his teeth in order to cover up his amazement.

Gregor and Diana continued to climb in the prince's wake. The count had twice been here before. He knew the little dip in the path whence the first view could be had, and as he was about to reach it he drew aside to allow Diana to pass. This charming little gesture, a mere nothing in itself, the delicacy of feeling that lay behind his desire that she should glimpse the temple first, touched Diana and warmed her heart towards the man. She threw him a loving glance as she passed in front. Her nature was as sensitive as it was strong, as intuitive and refined as it was steeled and simple. Such kindly little attentions were greatly appreciated by her. She would give her all for a tender motion of the hand, for a wooing glance, for an unobtrusive and affectionate piece of courtesy such as Gregor had just displayed in letting her go forward to get the first view of the temple. Perhaps this little demonstration of delicate consideration was necessary to restore her balance, so that she might be in a fit state to enjoy the mighty picture she was about to contemplate.

A landscape conjured together on a heroic scale spread itself before her, mile upon mile of mountain and hollow stretching far away towards the sea which was sparkling in the rays of the early sun. In a clearing of the evergreen wood, just below the crest of the hills, grey in the orange light, stood the temple, its Doric columns unimpaired, though roof there was none. The great arms of the mountains compassed it about; but through a gap in their ranks, the sea was visible, while away to the west the mighty river-spread of inland waters glowed darkly, still shadowed by the mountains on its banks. As she gazed, the sun swung high above the hilltops, catching the grey columns in a beam of light.

All had dismounted, and, as their temperaments prompted, had stood still, or walked round, or approached the temple. The baron was especially delighted with the precision of its structure, praising the way in which each section of the columns "fitted like a glove." His wife had spread the ground plans and sketches out on the steps, and had forced the captain to examine every detail so as to see whether everything had been duly recorded on the sheets. The prince had wandered farther afield and had found a fig tree. He stretched his long arms up till he could pluck the fruit, then seated himself beneath the tree with two or three of the grey-green figs in his hands, and, while he sucked the red heart out of them, his eyes took in the scene of which the columns formed the centre. Silently he contemplated them, comparing, balancing, enjoying, criticizing; and his mind vacillated between thoughts of the men who had built the temple, and a peculiarly succulent strawberry jam they made at home whose savour had been called up by the taste of the rosy pulp of the fruit he now had in his hand.

Gregor strode up to where Diana had dismounted. For him, the landscape held nothing but her picture. She stood in her boyish attire by the side of her horse, with the reins loosely hanging over her arm, while with the other hand she shaded her eyes from the sun. A pine tree formed a background for her as, bathed in the glowing light—the little horse to one side of her, and the huge dog to the other—she gazed transfixed at the scene before her, aloof, forgetful of the why and wherefore of the journey. And Gregor knew from her expression and her aspect that up here in this mountain quietude, in despite of the long ride and of all that the night had held, nothing existed for her but the vision of the flawless morning as it rose towards her from the distant sea.

Gregor's whole being was flooded with the solemnity of the hour; now more than ever he became aware of the essential unity of youth and maturity, of knowledge and physical energy, with which he had been struck at his first glimpse of her. He fancied he could detect in her face at this moment, yes at this very moment, that look he had rarely seen in women, and then only at the instant of love's surrender. Loath to disturb her, he nevertheless drew near to her, and, speaking softly, with the tremor of desire in his tone, he spoke her name:

"Diana!"

She did not stir, but murmured:

"Look! The sea!"

He stood slightly to the back of her, and in spirit swept her to him in a wide embrace, while he vowed never, never again to let her out of his hands.

From where he sat under his fig tree, the prince had been watching them as they vowed themselves, one to youth, the other to sunshine and the sea. He whistled softly through his teeth.

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER ONE

Towards the end of July, Diana received the following wire: "Rumour reports Greyhound daily hunts goddess of chase. Scherer." She laughed, then handed her reply to the waiting messenger: "Greater the certainty you will bag both. Wassilko."

She was reclining in a deck chair on the terrace of a white villa. The low roof and walls excluded the view on all sides save that which looked down upon the water. Nine o'clock had just struck, and it was at this early hour that Gregor had taken to coming. On horseback, the journey from the town needed a good hour, and under the most favourable conditions it took half an hour in the motor boat.

"Mary!"

The former nurse had joined Diana here in the early days. She was a native of these parts, and glad indeed was she to be back in the warm south, hoping never again to have to experience the bleakness of a northern clime. Her large, melancholy eyes with the earnest expression habitual to women born in southern lands, gazed forth with satisfaction upon the surrounding landscape. She now hastened to rejoin her mistress.

"Mary, do you see any sign of the boat?"

"Not yet. Here are your letters."

"They've come early."

"The telegraph boy brought them."

Diana drew the coarse linen wrapper about her knees, and sat up. She took her mail with a pout, as if swallowing some unpalatable doctor's stuff. Turning the letters over this way and that, she amused herself for a while trying to guess who the senders might be. Then throwing the others aside, she selected one from the pile because it had the town postmark and a typed address. It looked rather important, as if it might be an official message, something that needed immediate attention. The big quarto sheet bore no signature, merely the typewritten words:

"Be careful of showing your preference before the baron and his wife"

Just that; not even a full stop at the end. Diana had a flutter at her heart as she read the words "your preference" typed by a stranger's hand. Although she knew quite well that her intimacy with Gregor could not possibly remain a secret, she was loath to see a record of it on paper, typed by a fellow mortal's hand, sorted by yet another unknown person, stamped by a third, delivered by a fourth. She pushed the thing into an angle of the chair so that it might not be blown away in one of the sudden gusts of wind which frequently rose from the waters below. Chin in hand, elbow on knee, she gazed out over the shimmering expanse.

"Always this intrusion of the outer world! Always these octopus tentacles outstretched! Hardly had the blue ocean emerged from chaos and spread his great limbs to bask in the sun, sufficient unto himself, content, when ships must come sailing upon his heaving bosom, men must plumb his depths, besprinkle him with buoys, build towering lighthouses, so that in the end there is not one part of his anatomy that has not been discovered and named. When have I ever been left to love in peace? Not in Paris, where we were forced to leave the Hotel Athene and seek seclusion in a little servantless studio on the Montmartre heights. Not at Saint Gingolph, where no tourists visiting the lake of Geneva were ever supposed to come, and where Edmond always wore blue spectacles when he went into Evian so as not to be recognized. Not that time in Scotland when Charlie and I went away to the seaside, and he tried to transform his aristocratic ways and become a simple fisherman. Every time we were tracked down at last. And here are the scandalmongers at their old amusement once more!"

Suddenly she got up, called for her bathing things, slipped into a dark violet swimming suit, flung a white bath cloak about her, and in a trice had reached the little hut which stood on the margin of the water at the foot of the garden surrounding the villa. She climbed to the top of the ladder and dived. Up she came, spluttering to the surface, the head showing a few locks which had escaped from her cap and dripped down her cheeks. With a free, overarm stroke, she swam through a gap in the protective palisading out into the open water. The currents made swimming in these parts rather dangerous even for the best of swimmers, but regardless, she made for an eddy which sparkled in the sun, and swam round it. Now she saw a motor boat coming from mid-stream and making for the landing-stage she had left a moment ago. She knew both the vessel and its helmsman, and swam vigorously towards it. Within a few yards of it she suddenly dived and swam under water until she saw the keel above her. Then up she came again and cried:

"Ware, enemy; torpedo to starboard!"

Gregor, who had seen something suddenly disappear in the water ahead and who guessed whence the attack came, had slowed down to dodge his assailant. Now two brown hands gripped the side of the boat. Throwing her a rope, he exclaimed:

"Clear for action! Fire!"

Glistening and smooth, she pulled herself half out of the water, while he, making full speed ahead, put the boat's nose towards the shore.

"Spoils of war," she laughed. "Surrender!"

"No, no; having no ship, you are my prisoner."

Laughing and teasing, they reached the landing-stage. Throwing the painter to Diana's brown-skinned serving-man who had quickly come down to the waterside as they drew near, Gregor turned to speak to the swimmer, but she was nowhere to be seen, having with youthful alacrity clambered out of the water and made for the hut.

"Good morning, Sir," said Mary, and once more he was grateful to her in that she never called him "Excellency," and never bowed in deference to his rank.

He passed by the table which had been laid for breakfast in the cool twilit hall, and leaned against one of the wooden pillars whose silhouette stood out black against the pale-blue background of waters.

"Have I recaptured my lost youth? She looked no more than a girl in her teens just now. If I ever should divulge the fact that six weeks after I first met her I was confiding all my plans to this woman and relying on her for counsel and advice, I should be laughed out of court. People would say: 'Fancy at your age being led into such folly by the sight of a neat pair of ankles!' Romantic, indeed!"

The sound of naked feet running up the marble steps made him swing around. Diana stood in the doorway muffled in her towel wrap, her hair still damp from her morning dip.

"You are late and I am hungry. So must you be. Come along!"

She made him sit down and pushed dishes of meat and eggs and what not towards him, served him his tea, and scrutinized the figs that lay in a wide dish at the centre of the table. At last she found one to her liking, and, breaking it open, plunged her fine white teeth into its rosy pulp.

"Perfect! Neither too hard nor too soft, those are the best. They should be elastic, cool without and ripe within. What are you smiling at?"

"Like women, in fact!"

"There spoke Gregor the thirty-year-old."

"Yes, I suppose Gregor the greybeard should have said: 'Diana'!"

"No, not that exactly. You know the symbolism attached to this perfect fruit; you know that you grew to maturity slower and in a more natural manner than I, who, maybe, came to know everything too soon and in the end shall probably incur the wrath of the gods."

"Nereid! Were it not that you keep your charms (lately disporting themselves so shamelessly in the sun) hidden away in the folds of that clumsy wrap, I should establish my claim."

Diana had learned his way of giving the pathetic an ambiguous twist, so she let it go at that. He, too, knew his Diana well enough to know that she would never demean herself to fish for a compliment. They both sat eating, and kept their own counsel. At length Gregor broke the silence:

"We always seem to begin at different ends of the stick when we breakfast together. Suppose you pick me out a fig, to finish off with, as perfect as the one you had as an appetizer?"

She felt several of the fruits before she picked out one that satisfied her, one of the smallest in the dish. This she offered him, saying: "Perfect."

He took it, and cut it open.

"You always pronounce that word with a kind of solemnity, much as when I was a young man they came to tell us in the casino: 'Tomorrow His Majesty will be coming.'"

"That's just how I feel about it. The word makes me feel sort of anxious and uneasy."

"Perhaps it is because unconsciously you feel that you yourself are nearer perfection than most," he teased.

"I rarely compare myself with others, except in moments of weakness. I've too good an opinion of myself! But my idea of perfection is so immense, that I must remain humble for ever. That's why I have no desire to write, as you were suggesting lately. No book of mine could ever attain perfection."

"Yes, but doesn't the idea of influencing others attract you? I had that notion once when I dreamt of becoming a great composer."

"Very little, Gregor. I only care to influence those I am fond of and who are worth influencing."

"Is it worth your while this time?" he said banteringly, with a vestige of coquetry in his voice. But at the same instant he was on his feet and had come round to her side of the table. Pulling her chair back, he knelt before her, raising the wrap to her knees and kissing them:

"Is it worth your while this time, in spite of grey hairs and limbs that are no longer as lithe as a young Narcissus's?"

"Gregor," she protested softly, making him get up and sit at the table again.

Somewhat abashed, he changed the subject, and asked abruptly:

"Have you seen that—have you seen young Seeland again?"

"Oh yes, I saw him yesterday."

She spoke calmly, but he made an impatient gesture. There had been a slumbering uneasiness in his mind ever since that day three weeks ago when, on the homeward journey from the temple, in answer to his persistent questioning as to Othello's master she had said: "He was at one time an intimate friend of mine." Now this uneasiness, which had been dormant, sprang up, awake and alert again. He had not wished to intrude upon her privacy, and yet he could not resist asking: "Here?"

"Yes, he came to fetch Othello who had again run away from him."

Silence. Diana watched him. His nostrils quivered slightly, betraying his secret emotions. She laid a hand affectionately on his arm.

"Gregor, he was only here a minute or two, and I did not come down till he was about to drive away."

He looked up and said somewhat nervously:

"Yes, yes, I know, I believe you..."

"Well, and what then?"

"It must have been awfully exciting—for him!"

"Very likely."

"Did he behave—all right?"

"Faultlessly."

"Shake hands?"

"Of course."

"Kiss your hand?"

"Of course not."

"Er—came in the evening?"

"In the forenoon. If he'd come ten minutes earlier you'd have met."

"I must find out from my Austrian colleague when he thinks of utilizing the young man's capabilities in the consular service."

She laughed. He was suddenly silent, pensive. Then, drawing an envelope from an inside pocket he handed it to her.

"Just read that. Ridiculous nonsense!"

Diana spread out the sheet of paper and read: "The countess is betraying the count with Herr Andreas Seeland." The message had been typed.

She looked at him earnestly, trying to fathom his thoughts. His face revealed nothing. With a laugh she said:

"The letter to you is on smaller paper, intimate, more like a letter of condolence. Mine is on a large quarto sheet, altogether more imposing, taking the form of a solemn denunciation."

"You've had a warning too?"

Gregor spoke quickly, with ill-concealed excitement. The thought flashed through his mind that Andreas was courting both these women at once. Intolerable!

"My communication does not relate to him," she answered, reading his thoughts and hoping to tranquillize him.

"To whom, then? To me?"

"I am to be on my guard against the baron," she said, going off to fetch the letter.

The missives were compared, held up to the light, the postmarks on the envelopes examined.

"Differences don't mean anything. It must be the same person... and yet, no..."

"Whom do you think mine is from?"

"Hm. Kopp or the prince. They both dislike the baron and are fond of me. The prince has also a great admiration for you. But my correspondent—— Who can that be?"

"Linnartz, of course."

"I rather fancy it is the baroness."

"Yes, that is even more probable."

"And what do you make of it all?"

He spoke jauntily, but Diana saw that the second letter had upset him more even than the one he had received. She realized that with the receipt of these anonymous warnings the critical stage of Olivia's relationship to Andreas had begun. She knew that it behoved her to walk warily, to do her utmost to calm him down in the new emergency, just as she had lulled to rest his very natural misgivings in respect of Andreas and herself. Casting a disdainful look on the two miscreant papers, she exclaimed emphatically:

"Nonsense!"

Gregor was only waiting for this confirmation of his hopes. The expressive word acted like an elixir upon the gayer elements in his character, and he felt light-hearted again. He rose and thrust the letter back in his pocket.

"Going already?"

"I must. Conference." He embraced her passionately and left.

CHAPTER Two

Linnartz to a friend in Berlin.

"October 3rd.

"Dear Eberhard,

"It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen today, for I have a piece of news to tell, which, in the interests of the country, I should be delighted for any one to prove false. Unfortunately, everything which I am now going to disclose is authentic, I have incontestable proof. It is only after having made every possible excuse and looked at the matter in a purely objective way, that I have made up my mind to send in a complaint against a chief whom I personally respect and honour.

"I am sorry, indeed, to have to thrust upon you the uncongenial office of being clerk of the court in this matter. But I see no other way out. As far as I know, you are the only one of my friends I can trust in such a delicate affair, and the only one who is closely associated with the foreign secretary. I shall be as concise as possible.

"Contrary to all expectations, the chief seemed during the last couple of years to have settled down to a quiet and orderly life—of course I may flatter myself that this has been due in large measure to my own example and precept. But since June he has again succumbed to one of his degrading and perilous love-affairs. Last summer a lady suddenly arrived in these parts, Diana de Wassilko by name (though I can find no mention of this 'aristocratic' family in the Almanach de Gotha). Short hair, rides, swims, and has other accomplishments; well-trained in social amenities and able to impose herself. I saw her some years ago in very dubious company in St. Petersburg—from afar, of course, for even in my bachelor days I avoided the company of such women.

"She came with an introduction from the newspaper magnate Scherer, and in a very short time had completely captivated the chief. Soon it was common talk that she had become his mistress, that he had taken a house for her, servants, horses, etc. He goes every day to see her, usually once, sometimes twice, rides over or takes boat. Spends half the day in her company, often stays on through the night.

"If such demoralizing behaviour, such neglect of duty, affected himself only, the whole thing would have to be fought out between him and his wife, the unhappy Countess Olivia. But matters are far more serious. Not only is this person in a position to pass on to Scherer all the information which the chief may divulge in moments of weakness and of passion; she is now taking an active part in affairs herself! On the very best authority I learn that recently by cunning and craft she induced one of the secretaries of the foreign office here to hand over copies of letters, among them one to the French embassy which she entrusted to the chief. These papers, because they proved beyond a doubt the friendly feeling existing between this government and France (a friendship the chief has always been sceptical about), have not been shown to me or to the other gentlemen at the embassy, nor have they been placed in the archives. We have, therefore, every indication of the formation of a State within the State.

"Not until recently did the matter of the stolen information come to the ears of the foreign minister here, although even now he has no exact knowledge of the affair. He sounded the chief, and demanded the expulsion of the culprit. Of course the chief played the innocent as in duty bound. Not only did he say nothing about handing over the culprit for the local authorities to deport if they deemed it expedient; he actually went out of his way to shield her, deploring that the suspicion of such an intrigue could have arisen in connexion with a person who was not engaged in political activities and who was neither competent nor willing to dabble in matters of the kind. As the chief took up such an attitude it was impossible for the minister to insist, but since then he has been telling all the foreign representatives that the chief is 'conniving with a notorious spy.' Le Chat and Sir Henry are naturally delighted, and are making the best of their opportunities. When the minister tried to sound me in the matter, I was evasive as duty demanded. But the conflict between loyalty to my chief and loyalty to my country is so great that I am no longer certain if I am serving the fatherland honourably while shielding an erring official, even when that official is my own official superior. To add to my difficulties, now that Eckersberg is about to leave in order to take up his inheritance, I have no one at the embassy to give me moral support. All these reasons have led me, my dear Eberhard, to confide in you, and I beg you to follow your own counsel as to whether you keep silence or whether you hand on the intelligence to the most appropriate quarter.

"I wish you and your dear wife all the best the world has to offer. Heartiest greetings from my household to yours.

"Your old friend,
"ERNST LINNARTZ."

Scherer to Diana.

"October 20th.

"The last dispatch I sent (it was smart of you to guess so promptly whom I meant by 'Owl'!) will have shown you how matters are shaping themselves in the duel between policehound and greyhound. The former has chosen E. N. for his father confessor. E. N. being a notorious gossip, the news leaked out within twenty-four hours after the receipt of policehound's letter and became the talk of club-rooms and editorial offices. That was only to be expected. But I was uneasy when I found no mention at all of the matter in the government organs, for this indicated that some big coup was about to be dealt, and was not to be hampered in any way by ill-timed accusations, no matter how savoury the morsel might be.

"In addition, the foreign secretary made no attempt to speak to me when we shook hands at the opening of an exhibition here. But on Tuesday I had a call on the phone. Would I go to see him? I allowed two days to elapse.

"His reception was cordial, and the look of hostility from his owl's eyes was balm to my heart, since it was cast upon myself! He laid the 'original document' before me—of course it only consisted of items from L's letter. I need hardly say that your name cropped up as well. He was careful to stress the fact that he knew I had not sent you out there in any official capacity; at the same time there was undeniable proof of correspondence between you and myself. When he saw that I did not demur, he came to the point. He requested me—there was no challenge in his voice, he spoke in a friendly way without rising—to recall you. I feigned astonishment. Then he got up, pushed his left shoulder forward, leaned his head towards it—his attitude had something akin to one I know so well in yourself—and said:

"'You refuse?'

"'Have you any other complaint against my employees?'

"'Only against this one. You refuse?'

"I'm sorry, Sir.'

"'You feel bound...'

"'I cannot dismiss an employee who has carried out her duties admirably, has sent most valuable reports, has established the best of relations with those I wish to have good relations with—I cannot dismiss such an employee merely on account of a denunciation, the subject of which has not come to your ears through the proper channels and whose object cannot be defended in any way.'

"'We know all there is to know.'

"'And what about the ambassador? Is he unaware of the denunciation?'

"'In all probability.'

"Does Your Excellency not intend to ask him directly?'

"'To ask him would mean to recall him.'

"'And His Majesty...?'

"'Knows nothing as yet.'

"'Has Count Münsterberg no friend who could let him know of the accusation, so that he himself might demand an inquiry?'

"'I know of none—unless you yourself...'

"'I have not the honour to call myself his friend. Suppose I ask the lady if she were willing....'

"'Would the lady be prepared to imperil her own position by communicating things that were to her disadvantage?'

"'One can but try.'

"'You are willing?'

"I will send her an account of our conversation, without comment.'

"'That's very good of you, but your trouble will be vain.'

"'We'll see.'

"I have given you this exchange with much detail, so that you may be in a position to decide whether you will undertake to tell the count what is afoot against him, and if so how much you will disclose.

"For my part I would advise you against doing this, and am only sending you this letter by a trustworthy messenger in order that you may take your bearings. The count will of course want to exculpate himself immediately, and might injure himself a great deal more by so doing than if he kept silent. His position must be uncommonly strong, seeing that none of his superiors ventures to denounce him.

"Business affairs by ordinary post. I can't get to that before Sunday.

"Yours very truly,
"SCHERER."

CHAPTER THREE

In November the major came to replace Eckersberg. Ever since the foreign secretary had given him the hint last summer he had lived expectant of such a turn in his fortunes, and had hoped that by some stroke of good luck he might be transferred to the spot where she who had inspired him to seek advance in his profession had taken up her quarters. Not for nothing, he thought, had he been christened Felix! When, one morning, he had read in the paper the news of old Count Eckersberg's death he took the omen as a gift from the gods. He moved heaven and earth, setting friends and relatives in motion on his behalf, and he had finally thrust himself on the minister's notice one evening at a dinner party. When, a week later, his chief asked him whether he would like the post, he accepted with rapture.

Yet he had a presentiment that his lady, in spite of his fair hair and the many memories he and she shared in common, would never be weaned from her allegiance to that grey-haired man down south, whose mistress she was said to be, and who was said even by his enemies to be endowed with a most attractive personality.

The major's first two visits to Diana had not escaped the notice of his colleagues at the embassy. He had refrained from seeing any more of her, partly because he was overwhelmed with work, and partly he was deterred by the fear of meeting his chief at Diana's villa. But the baron's party, which consisted only of Linnartz and his wife, though they thought they had now secured Olivia's adherence, had quickly discerned in his visits confirmation of their suspicions of Diana's "demi-monde" antecedents.

From the very first the Linnartzes, man and wife, had looked upon the major as a possible enemy. Felix, whose natural jealousy had been aroused by visions of Gregor and Diana perpetually together, had entered upon his new post with a feeling of animosity towards his chief. But the longer he worked for the ambassador, the more he came to like the man, to feel a growing sympathy for him. Gregor's fresh vitality appealed to him, also his waywardness, and his comradely way of treating his subordinates. The embassy being a household divided against itself, the major's antagonistic reception by one faction, and the cordial welcome extended to him by the other, helped to define the newcomer's position. He made himself an object of suspicion to the Linnartzes as soon as he called on Diana. Kopp, on the other hand, had mentally rallied to the major's side. Army and navy had greeted one another with a kind of formal cordiality; the two men had recalled the dinner at the club and the homeward walk with Scherer when this very ambassador had come up for discussion. Though at the outset Scherer's name had served as a link between them, it was of Scherer's envoy, of Diana, that both men had thought during their first interview.

The prince was less affable. He could not help wondering what the bond might be between Diana and the major, and how many weeks would elapse before the military attaché would come into collision with the chief. Nevertheless, the major's open-heartedness made a strong appeal—a fact which the prince was careful to keep to himself.

When Gregor had told Diana the name of Eckersberg's successor, she had answered that she knew the major of old. Yet she kept the major's second visit from her lover. A first call could be looked upon as a mere courtesy visit, but how might others be construed? The better she came to know Gregor, the more ardent her love for him had grown, the more she was at pains to spare him anything that might shake his confidence in her, might make him uneasy or agitated. She therefore begged the major not to call again. Felix had looked mutely at her, the woman who had taught him all that was worth knowing, even how to take a rebuff; then he had left the villa like the well-disciplined soldier he was, sad at heart, and yet hopeful that some day he might be allowed to return.

That same afternoon the prince came into the office where the major and Kopp were deep in the study of a document. As he entered, he said banteringly:

"How incredibly industrious you two men of war are. By half past four you'll have saved the Fatherland, I shouldn't wonder! Decrees! Decrees! Decrees! What the devil's it all about?"

"About the amount of crape to be worn at funerals!"

"Va bene!" Then he added with a sigh: "And you went for a long ride this morning."

"Yes, in a southerly direction," answered the major, to whom this observation was addressed.

"Nice place to stay in the summer, eh?"

"A splendid place for a ride," put in Kopp.

Both men wanted to bring the major to a mention of the visits, but he exclaimed airily:

"Yes, splendid."

"The chief knows the road well," said the prince tentatively. "Let's see, how long is it since he took to riding in that direction? Six months?"

The major, who knew when his chief's visits had begun just as well as they, said calmly:

"As long ago as that? Ever since May?"

"No, it must have been July."

"Ah, of course, July."

All three looked relieved as this word was pronounced, like people who had been given an explanation for which they had long been waiting. Each stood pensive for a while, wondering what the others were thinking of. Then Kopp, drumming on the window pane, exclaimed:

"Magnificent woman!"

To which the prince responded:

"Idem est natura et ars."

The major said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the prince. The latter slowly and deliberately put his question:

"Major, have you met Fräulein de Wassilko before?"

Felix pressed his lips together, and hesitated a moment before answering.

"Yes, I had the pleasure—some time ago—slightly..."

His answer coming as it did after too long a pause, the expression which had flitted across his face when the prince had spoken the Latin tag, the agitation he had displayed when adding the word "slightly" a second too late, and leaving it hanging in the air, were enough to tell the prince all he wanted to know. Kopp, on the other hand, was as innocent as ever. The soldier could deceive his comrade, but he could not deceive the diplomat.

The prince had always been devoted to Gregor. What he admired in him was the mixture of energy and sound critical faculty—a rare conjuncture. He had a great respect for Olivia, and yet the way in which Gregor snapped up women and dropped them again with a kind of abrupt geniality made him, the precociously wise young man, feel that here was one who could dominate life as he himself would have given much to be able to do. But it was not until Diana's advent that the prince wholly surrendered to the personality of his chief. Then the marvellous change that had occurred in the count, his recaptured youth which was reflected in all he did and said, confirmed the young man in what had hitherto only been surmise as to the elder's fine capabilities. Linnartz, on the other hand, the prince had always found intolerable, and as soon as the baron's intrigues at headquarters came to his ears he determined more than ever to rally to the count's side. He knew he could rely on Kopp's help. Eckersberg had been an uncertain quantity. But his successor in office had, by this secret visit to Diana, made himself one of their group. He guessed by the major's manner the nature of the bond between Diana and this old friend of hers. What now remained to be discovered was whether the relationship between the two had come to an end as had obviously the one with Andreas, or whether the major had come here in order to oust the new lover.

In the past the prince had done much to shield his chief from the consequences of his own folly, and this time, likewise, he may have been instrumental in burking the effects of Linnartz's denunciation. But a rival might prove dangerous, a rival could do successfully what the baron merely botched, a rival could unearth matters that would bring disaster in their train, a rival alone could achieve his chief's fall. The prince had given much thought to such a possibility ere this. Now, however, he felt that events might crowd upon him at any moment. He must act at once, must infringe his own strict canons of behaviour to find out how the land lay. Kopp's presence was a boon to him, for the captain's earnestness seemed in some sort to excuse his own unusual solemnity. Having thus made up his mind to take the step, he rose from his chair and went over to where the major stood. Kopp turned from the window through which he had been gazing and followed the prince's movement. He was surprised at the strange formality of the prince's manner in addressing the military attaché:

"Major, you have doubtless noticed that there are two factions here which..."

Felix looked at his interlocutor earnestly, drew himself up as if on duty, and answered:

"I belong to this one, Your Highness."

For a moment the prince's right hand itched to go forward and clasp the major's, but his whole nature was so averse to anything that savoured of sentimentality that he overcame the impulse. He therefore said nonchalantly: "Do forgive me for this absurdly melodramatic intervention...."

The door opened, and Linnartz came in.

"The countess has sent me to invite you to take tea with her and my wife. Will you come down, gentlemen?"

As the four men entered Olivia's little boudoir, they saw Andreas sitting on a low stool showing Olivia's son the pictures in a big portfolio and telling the child stories about them. The countess seemed more agitated than usual. Her vexation at having missed an appointment with Andreas, through the blunder of a servant, had brought her inner unrest to the surface. Andreas, too, was in a similar state of nervous irritability, and had sought refuge in the boy's company. Now he wished to rejoin the others, but Clemens pulled him by the sleeve, protesting:

"Don't get up. They are only our own gentlemen."

Every one laughed, and Andreas released himself from the child's hold. The major was introduced to the young poet. As soon as Felix heard Andreas's name, he remembered the story of the dog, which had been told him, and he saw in this new acquaintance yet another man that in some way was connected with Diana. The men drew up in a semi-circle round the countess while she poured out tea. Meanwhile the prince had gone over to the lad who was sitting rather disconsolate after Andreas's desertion. Though quite unused to children, he tried to propitiate the little boy by saying as he took a seat beside him: "Give me a trial, Clemens. I can tell stories too. What have we here? Adam and Eve being turned out of the Garden of Eden. Very unpleasant scene, and all on account of an apple."

"Tell me, what does 'and they knew that they were naked' mean; I've never been able to understand," asked Clemens.

"You're right," answered the prince. "It's a queer story. Baroness, can't you help me out? I'm being put through my catechism!"

He gave up his place to the baroness who had responded to his appeal, and he now joined the circle round the tea-table.

"What has Clemens been up to? I hope he has not been naughty."

"Contrariwise, Countess, eager for knowledge; though perhaps on rather perilous ground."

"May we be told?" asked the countess, who had overheard part of the child's question and wanted to bring the conversation into the erotic sphere—a thing she was usually careful to avoid in mixed society.

"Well he has just been studying the Scriptures with Herr Seeland, and is very keen on knowing about the Fall."

"Come, come," protested Linnartz, while the others laughed. Even Andreas joined in the merriment, lest his uneasiness be observed. But he sought Olivia's eyes, hoping to deter her. She, however, clutched hold of the subject with a kind of irritable despair, saying:

"Well, and how would you explain it, Prince Eduard?"

"I'm the youngest, Countess. You should ask the men of experience who surround you..."

"I am younger still," put in Andreas, hoping even now to turn the conversation away from the subject.

"And what do you think, Youngster?" asked the countess, looking at him, a challenge in her eye, as if no one else was present.

"I can no longer conceive of the idea of sin. I can only feel."

"Well spoken, Doctor," cried the major. "I can only feel!"

Kopp nodded his head in approval.

The prince smiled, and ventured to throw the ball back to the countess, saying:

"After the elucidation we have just had, an elucidation which for brevity matches the Spartan, and for licentiousness is worthy of Sardanapalus, we have a right to ask that you too..."

"Yes, yes, please," chimed in the officers.

All were silent. The countess, who today resembled a cat that has been offended, stared gloomily in front of her, muttering:

"The Fall! As if every pleasure did not contain the germs of bitterness—and yet one wants it all the same!"

The baroness had forgotten the child for a moment, absorbed in what was being said round the tea-table. Now she turned to Clemens again, once more willing to look at the pictures. But the boy, who had followed the baroness's eyes, had likewise heard what was said, and now, puzzled by all these incomprehensible things, he sat mumchance and rigid, taking no further interest in what the baroness was showing him. At last she asked:

"Clemens, what is the matter?"

Then he bent towards her and, as children do when they are telling secrets to one another, said in an exaggerated whisper:

"Bitterness. What is bitterness? Mama used that word twice just the other day when she was upstairs with Herr Seeland."

"Where upstairs?" whispered the baroness in her turn.

"Upstairs in the guest's room, near the balcony."

"When was it?"

"In the afternoon when Papa had gone for his ride. Mama said they were going on to the balcony to see the view, but they were in the guest's room, and I heard them, twice."

"To work," broke in the baron from the other end of the room.

With the countess's strange speech ringing in their ears, the four men made their way back to the office. Linnartz uttered one word:

"Unprecedented!"

Kopp said softly:

"That's what I call nature."

The major said nothing but, without being fully conscious of his own mental process, compared Olivia's outburst with Diana's freedom of speech.

The prince thought:

"Olivia has quarrelled with her only friend, while Diana has attracted three more friends to her side."

When, downstairs in the boudoir, Andreas once more sought the boy's company, Clemens clung to his arm as if to make amends for the betrayal, pulled the young man on to the bench beside him, and glared at the baroness, so recently the recipient of his childish confidence.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Are you taking the sea road?" cried Andreas, as the major suddenly turned his horse's head to the right. "Do you want to ride that way, Major?"

It was a bright, sunny winter's morning, and Andreas had asked Felix to join him. In the early hours, the wind blew chill from the west, but later it dropped, and the days were as mild as in September. The major and the young poet had made better acquaintance after meeting at the club, and the elder man was attracted to the younger on account of the intellectual interests they shared, rather than by Andreas's peculiar character and fantastical way of talking. Above all, however, what effectively bound the major to Andreas was the fact that Diana had known and had loved the youth.

"Yes, let's take the sea road," cried back the major, who was already some distance along it. "I hardly trust my mount's off hind shoe to keep on if we ride over cobbles much longer. What sort of a beast is yours?"

"This is not my own horse," answered Andreas, overhauling him, and endeavouring to push his way to the major's left. But the latter would give no room for such a manœuvre, saying pleasantly:

"Please, no formalities! Anyway it is only seemly that a simple soldier like myself should give the place of honour to the poet. Nay more, have I not heard that you are soon to become consul general?"

The last words brought home to Andreas the fundamental cleavage between his thoughts and that reality which he had made the goal of his life. What would he not give to be consul general here and now! He said resignedly:

"I'll be grey before that day arrives."

"And prospects?"

"They keep putting me off. All I've learned about nations and customs during these many months I could have learned equally well as a mere traveller in no way concerned with seeking an official post."

"Quite possibly," agreed Felix absent-mindedly, for his thoughts had suddenly switched off to other matters. He was thinking: "It is ten o'clock, we are riding along the sea road. Why the devil should I not call on her, seeing that I am not alone..." He calculated the risks, and held his peace.

Andreas was grateful to his companion for not talking. He loved to walk or to ride long stretches at a time, without exchanging a word. Then it was that he felt the thoughts of the two silent friends to be like huntsmen each going his separate way in search of game, getting widely separated. When, at last, one or the other raised his voice, it sounded like a distant horn calling to him in the valley from afar. To the right of him was the water reflecting the sun's rays in quivering columns of light. Ships sailed by, cutting the sparkling pillars in two, and followed by comet-like tails of dancing waters; the paddles of the little steamboats tossed sprays which glinted like a shower of stars; strife and sportiveness rose from the heart of the shining expanse, bringing to the poet's vision an allegory of love. He saw Olivia, majestically proportioned as some being of a primal age, resting on the bosom of the waters, smiling sensuously as the wavelets played on her white body. Like a sea-god he arose, and was about to seize her in his arms, when he heard a voice saying:

"Shall we put our horses to a canter?"

The major's thoughts had been with Diana, recalling the days long past. He felt agitated and disturbed by his reminiscences, and had recourse to the means which he knew from old experience would restore him to calm—a good gallop. But Andreas was vexed at being thus ruthlessly disturbed in his dream which weighed heavy upon him as Olivia's hair. Still, his ambition to make good in the real world, and not to be conquered by it, stimulated him to pull himself together and to put spurs to his horse.

On arriving at the villa quarter they reined in their mounts to a walking pace. Both men looked over to the white house which had so often been in their thoughts. The poet, who did not know the time of the count's visits, having never studied the man's habits, asked himself whether Gregor might not be with Diana at this very moment. The major, for his part, had reckoned up the reasons why the count could not possibly be there at this hour, and had by now determined to venture on the call. "I wonder if she'll be very angry," he asked himself. "Is this a harem, and she an eastern monarch's favourite? Two acquaintances, on a morning ride, stop in front of her villa. Perhaps we do no more than send her a hello as she looks out of the window...."

"You—know Fräulein de Wassilko, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Shall we—we're just passing by—just give her a wave of the hand?..."

"I'd rather not stop."

"Just as you like."

The major was furious. In a trice, he felt antipathy for this young man who was hindering rather than helping. He'd probably suffered at her hands and was afraid of seeing her again. Andreas meanwhile was thinking that the major would very likely deem him a bit of a coward. He had his suspicions as to the "slight" acquaintance the major had professed to have with Diana, remembering that she had once confided to him her weakness for handsome cavalrymen. Might not Felix be the man she had alluded to, and, therefore, a rival claimant to her affections? A few minutes elapsed before he could trust himself to speak.

"It's only that—perhaps..."

"I bet we'll not be coming at an inopportune moment," put in Felix quickly. "Is that all you are afraid of?"

"Yes; what else to be sure?"

"Then I'll take French leave!"

Felix, for whom to wish was to do, rode on, and in a few minutes they drew up by Diana's garden gate. Mary, thinking it was the count, poked her head out of the window, while the manservant was making his way down:

"Can we see Fräulein de Wassilko," Felix called up to Mary.

"I'll go and ask."

A moment later, Diana herself appeared at the window, crying down to them gaily:

"Good morning. Glad to see you. Ali, let the gentlemen in.—I hope neither of your horses is inclined to kick," she resumed when her visitors entered the hall and were shaking hands. "Poor Ali is so afraid of horses that at any sign of restlessness he lets go the bridle, and we have all the trouble of catching the beasts again."

"What a jolly old hunt that would be," laughed the major.

"What'll you take? Whisky, sherry, cognac? These changing temperatures make choice a difficult matter."

She was delightfully self-possessed as she entertained her two old friends. They thought her more charming than ever while she played the hostess, making them at home, ministering to their wants. She was wearing a short, sandy-coloured skirt of a warm material, and over her blouse she had slipped on a jacket of pale lilac silk. Motioning her visitors into arm-chairs, she pulled up a dumpty for her own use. Andreas saw her profile, clear-cut against the blue waters; Felix faced her; neither could catch the expression of her eyes as she glanced now at one and now at the other. She sat there aloof and free as a statue, instinctively yielding to the spirit of independence within her.

"Not to be taken unawares," thought the officer. "Already secure in the rôle she means to play."

"Aloof," thought the poet.

"Queer notion," thought Diana. "I wonder if they came hoping to surprise Gregor. He's not likely to turn up this morning. And if he did?"

Aloud she said placidly:

"How is Countess Münsterberg?"

Her eyes travelled over the water as she spoke, for she did not wish either to look at Andreas or to look through him.

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her this week. Perhaps Herr Seeland..."

Andreas felt that he was taking part, not so much in a dream, as in some intangible scene conjured up from the world of unreality. An unknown voice seemed to be asking him a question, to which he answered very slowly:

"I believe she is very well."

Diana murmured softly:

"I should very much like to see her again."

Andreas, whose nature responded more readily to plastic transformations than to cold facts of reality, and who was ever prone to merge contrasts into a poetical whole, suddenly threw off his reserve at this sign of Diana's sympathy, and said warmly:

"The countess, I fancy, has taken a great liking to you."

"I should, indeed, be happy if that were so, but can hardly hope that it is. It seems to me that the countess is deceived in herself."

They were interrupted by the entrance of the servant bearing a tray with glasses.

"Now, Major, you'll take whisky, I know," she cried teasingly, for the major had always and emphatically expressed his dislike for the beverage. "Real Old Scotch Whisky, your favourite poison!"

"No thanks! I'll have some of this deliciously fragrant Arab coffee."

"Are you, too, succumbing to the spell of the East? How are negotiations getting on?"

She went over to where Andreas was sitting, and, while the major held forth about Serbia, she placed the tray at Andreas's elbow. Then, taking two bottles of liqueur, she mixed a glass of cognac and Chartreuse and handed it to the young man as if he were a friend of the family whose tastes were well known and whom one was accustomed to serve. Diana had forgotten herself for a moment because she was really interested in what the major was saying, and liked him immensely for the line he was taking in respect of the count. But her spontaneous action had not escaped Felix, who drew his own conclusions, and was even more delighted at having caught Diana out, than at having solved the riddle of her earlier relationship with the poet.

Andreas took no part in the political discussion that ensued. His mind was occupied with Diana's words, so inopportunely cut short, and he spun fanciful tissues with the antitheses which these two women presented. Suddenly he was torn from his dream by a gesture he particularly loved in Diana; she was tossing her head in that audacious way which had always captivated him, and he saw her before him as she really was. Short-kirtled, she stood free and debonair in the centre of the hall, her chin tilted in the air, her curls tossed back, reminding him of the youth portrayed by Antonello da Messina. Again he was aware of her mastery of life, a mastery he admired so intensely as expressed in the statues and pictures, the romances and histories, of the Renaissance. And he said to himself:

"Does she not stand there discoursing about the Serbs as if she were a member of parliament who had been making the same demand for decades? Who could believe that those lips had recited the tenderest verses of Petrarch, and said my own poems, yes, my own poems..." He lost himself in recollections of how those lines of his had been written, the circumstances that had inspired them; and incontinently his thoughts flew back to the enchanted isle.

The sound of horses' hoofs hammered upon his ears, breaking the current of his fantasy. Bustle without, and the noise of neighing as when horses that know one another meet. Then Gregor stood on the threshold.

"May I come in? Am I disturbing you? I was just passing. Came to ask how you were—Good-morning, Major. Ah, Herr Seeland?—Glorious riding weather. How would it be if we all went on a little expedition round to—— Perhaps rather too late—and business..."

"I'm all confusion, Sir," said Felix, "to be caught away from work at so late an hour."

"Pray don't mention it. I'm caught playing truant too. I ought to have been consulting the oracle long ere this for an answer to this morning's dispatches. An almost insoluble riddle, I must confess. What has the sphinx to say about it? And what the poet?"

He was the "mad" Gregor of his youth, tossing his ambiguous words in the air, including all three in his talk, making light of an embarrassing situation with quips and sallies, anecdotes and laughter, putting them at their ease. But he simultaneously scrutinized their faces, took in every detail of table, chair, and stool, to see if anything suspicious lay hidden. Then he looked again at Diana, who had not shown the slightest uneasiness, but had remained her own natural self in spite of the surprise of his sudden appearance. When his first rush of words was exhausted, she fell in with his mood, teased him, retaliated, egged him on with smart repartee, until the major and the poet were bewildered by the concentrated medley of gallantry and mockery, of gaiety and mischievousness, and retired from the scene, leaving the field to a man who was victor even before he entered the arena.

At last the two young men rose to go, and Gregor said, with an abrupt change of manner:

"How are your plans shaping themselves, Herr Seeland? Are you going to be sent travelling? Or are we to have the pleasure of your company among us for some time to come?"

Andreas's reserve once more broke down as he answered:

"If Your Excellency will not consider me a nuisance..."

"Certainly not, my dear Doctor. Anyway you seem to have returned to the country of the muses rather than gone forward into the realm of politics, eh?"

"May I ask why...?"

"The countess has told me you are reading Dante together. I'm fond of the poet myself, at least the first part. Paradise is for me too—what shall I say—too..."

"Innocent, perhaps," put in Andreas, trying in vain to mitigate the sharpness of the words by speaking gently.

"Say, rather, too clear," interposed Diana, who scented danger in the air.

"I—love the rose of heaven," added Andreas defiantly.

"For my part," said Gregor, avoiding Diana's eye, "I'd like to be like Paolo in the region of winds, always flying, flying eternally, with Francesca."

Diana laughed.

"Yes, but then both you and Francesca would to all eternity have your old cavalry sabre stuck into their hearts!"

"Is that so? Was that so? I had quite forgotten about the sword. I've always had the picture of them in my mind as eternally flying. To be flying with Francesca!"

When they were alone again, Gregor looked searchingly at Diana as if awaiting an explanation, as was the custom of this man in his dealings with women. But Diana merely laughed up at him so sweetly that his one desire was to catch her and hug her to him. She, however, kept the table between them, dodging his every approach. At last she took refuge behind the piano whose long tail cut off one of the corners of the room. Before he could catch hold of her she drummed delicately on the case to remind him of the lesson the fair Helen had taught her husband—that he should have knocked before entering, since his coming was unexpected.

Gregor, whose mind had been completely tranquillized by the behaviour of the two men, was in a gay mood. He took his place at the keyboard, struck a few chords, and after a while began playing Chopin's Fantasia-Impromptu. As he played, he kept Diana close to him, his right arm encircling her hips so that he had some difficulty in reaching the keys. Her left arm had slipped round his neck.

As the music echoed through the room, she stood motionless; even her hand had ceased to caress his hair, and lay at rest. The extraordinary rigidity of her body thus pressed so close against him filled him with a vague apprehension as he played, and he looked up at her in alarm. Her head rose above him, the eyes were closed, but around the slightly open mouth was a smile of perfect self-surrender such as he had seen only once before—the morning they had reached the temple. Very cautiously, so as not to rouse her from her trance, only desirous of giving a lead to her thoughts, he quickly let the fantasia peter out into a few chords and cadences which brought him to the Nocturne in F-sharp major.

A new light of interpretation flashed upon him as he played. In the charmed circle of love, he once again heard this melody which had sprung intact from Eros's realm. He pressed his beloved yet closer to his side, laid his grey head against her breast, and he, too, closed his eyes, while his hands continued to play and he forgot that it was he himself that drew the music from the keys. It seemed to him that he was cradled with her upon these swaying passages of sound; as if they lay together dreaming on a cloud while the wind blew around them; as if they were almost sexless beings, united by an intangible tenderness, without ecstasy, without awaking, without strife, without goal....

Voices from outside came to disturb them. Diana sprang away, and Gregor broke off suddenly as Mary came in to say deferentially that her mistress's secretary had arrived. Gregor burst into jovial laughter, exclaiming:

"The fair Helen was right, one should never come unannounced, especially when one is a man of Menelaus's age!"

"Send him to the devil, Mary," said Diana in a rage.

"No, no! Let him be. Show him into the other room," said Gregor. "He need not exactly find me here, you know. Duty calls, as Linnartz would say. I'll leave the field to your secretary, since work claims you. Let's hope you will have some famous revelations from him. I'm off. And may I—tomorrow...?"

"Tonight, come, come back this evening," she cried, still carried beyond herself by those moments of rapturous communion.

Never before had she pleaded for his company, it had always been he who urged. He was taken aback, and stood for a while asking himself whether it were possible that at last her love was unfolding itself like a flower.... He drew her to him.... Did her words imply a surrender she had never yet granted him? ... And he smiled down into her eyes, saying:

"This evening, if you like. Nocturnes in the morning are in any case not quite fair! I'm invited to the Spanish embassy tonight. Never mind, I'll plead a headache, and he can say what he likes in Madrid!"

Diana gazed after him as he rode away.

"I breathed in time to that night-song, and as my bosom rose and fell with the music, his head rose and fell too.... Is his hair grey? ... I did not see any... His kiss and his hand are gentler than the fierce touch of youth.... We hover beyond the starry heights and the depths...."

She wrenched herself away from such musings, and went resolutely through the hall to the room where her secretary awaited her.

"Good-morning! What is the news today?"

Her tone was friendly, and yet distant, as though she were the wife of a minister of State. She dealt with correspondence, with dispatches, questioned the man, discussed affairs with him, then she was silent. Finally she got up, and started dictating:

"Postscript to the dispatch of the 26th. (You can type this afterwards.) I did not receive the report from T. until this morning. As far as my trustworthy sources of information go, we may reckon that the influence of the very able French consul in this province will continue to grow. He is actually responsible for having brought the construction of the railway to a standstill in that locality under pretext of Mohammedan feast-days. We must try and win over his lady, an Armenian, who was once the Wali's...."

CHAPTER FIVE

Since the failure of Linnartz's intrigue, the ambassador's prestige had grown and his position had strengthened. At the same time, while his political opponents were committing one mistake after another, his own plans were maturing and the possibility of a military alliance was in prospect. Events pointed to a fresh crisis, and the grouping of parties around the competing great powers was becoming plainer day by day.

The baroness had long been of opinion that the only way to shake Gregor's position was through the publication of some scandal connected with his private life, some scandal having no political significance, and yet one that could not be ignored. Diana was of no use to her in this field, for Diana was not received in society circles, and could do and say what she liked without compromising any one but herself. At first the Linnartzes had come forward as champions of Olivia's honour, as defenders of the unhappy wife who was being so basely betrayed. But the baroness soon changed her tactics, when she had learned from little Clemens the secret of the countess's relations to Andreas. She was now engaged in thinking out a means whereby the count might become aware of his wife's unfaithfulness, and she calculated that such a revelation would compel the ambassador to resign his post.

Her plans were considerably delayed because just about that time the countess and Andreas were very seldom able to meet. December had come again with its seasonal demands on Olivia; she had purchases to make, and other preparations. Andreas, too, was giving more time to political affairs, for a new attaché had just been appointed who was interested in the young man and took a pleasure in initiating him into his work. He had been sorely troubled that morning at Diana's house: her gentleness, the friendliness with which, all unconsciously, she had served him as of old, the frank comradeliness of her gesture as she shook hands with him; then Gregor's sudden apparition in the hall, the way he stood beside the woman who seemed so obviously to belong to him, the hint he had given that he would like Andreas to clear out; and, finally, the acerbity of his own reply to this twofold rival of his—all these things reacted upon his irritated nerves and filled him with perplexity. To add to his troubles he was now more or less cut off from Olivia, and no longer able to find solace as often as he wished in his beloved's arms.

Gregor, on the other hand, was flourishing in every way. He had succeeded in giving a good turn to affairs in the Balkans, and this success was a fertile ground for the planning of fresh political victories. The growing consciousness of his own power fired his creative energies to put forth of their best. When Diana had told him of the plot against him, and of Scherer's refusal to do the foreign secretary's bidding, he had sprung to his feet, had wanted an inquiry to be made as to his own actions. Thus far his superiors' prognosis had been fulfilled. But what the foreign secretary could not foresee, and what even Scherer had failed to estimate correctly, was the mutual confidence that existed between Diana and Gregor, and the influence Diana wielded in consequence of Gregor's trust. She had never to keep anything from him, had fearlessly told him all that troubled her; and she could show him how good had been Scherer's advice that he should keep silent, seeing that after all he was the stronger.

The evening after this talk, in which the courses of their destinies seemed to draw very near, both sharing in a common gloom and a common splendour, Gregor's passion for this strange and wonderful woman deepened and broadened. While they discussed the details of the intrigue directed against them both, and realized the extent of the danger they had been exposed to, their will to go on living and to conquer life became firmer and had mutual reactions and interactions upon the reserves of energy with which to face the world.

Although Diana had, in the early days of their love, yielded to Gregor rather than given herself spontaneously, in the course of many starry nights shared together she had come to depend on him as a young sapling depends on its post for support. He, the artist in love, had extended the spiritual scope of the adventure into wider and ever widening circles. In the nights that followed that night in the tent at the foot of the mountain, he had guided her with the sure strokes of an accomplished oarsman in the stream of undreamed delights. Vaguely and as from afar, she felt that this love was driving her towards a high-water mark in her life.

Diana stood before her tall mirror smartening herself up, and smiling as she did so at the thought: "It is not for him!" It was New Year's Eve, and the prince had invited her to a little supper party. His letter, at once reserved and gallant, the way in which he commented upon this same letter when he called at her house next day, his manner when asking whom else he might invite—all this had been done in so friendly a spirit that she felt she could not refuse. Now she stood in an old-gold evening gown before her glass, trying the effect of a golden ribbon in her hair. In days gone by she had been fond of such an ornament, but tonight she pulled the snood this way and that, unable to get the effect she wanted. At last she threw the thing away from her, took a few steps backward, looked at herself from this new vantage point, and, finally, decided to wear the ribbon. She was always chary of adornment, so contented herself this evening with a gold brooch set with three large topazes, living stones, two as it were awake while the third slumbered.

Coming into the prince's little drawing-room, her golden fillet created quite a sensation among the three men, although the major had known her to wear such an ornament in days gone by. He could not resist reminding her of those times by a gentle hint:

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle wear a hair-band before!"

"Nor have we," said Kopp.

"A golden coronal as for the wedding of a god," exclaimed the prince as he led her into dinner.

"I don't care for weddings. Dreadful affairs. Even the banquets of the gods in Homer seem to me grotesque," protested Diana.

"And yet such things may sometimes be very pleasant," said Kopp, thereby earning a friendly glance from Diana, who loved the man for his solemn way of dealing with the merest trifle.

"As a matter of fact," argued Felix, "we none of us are in a position to judge, seeing that marriage still lies in the unknown future so far as we are concerned."

"Unquestionably," put in the captain, while simultaneously a deprecating "Oh" came from Diana and the prince.

"In that case we'd never be allowed to pass judgment.—The law should be: Never marry—even when your grand-daughter clings beseeching to your knee!"

They all laughed at the prince's sally. Diana felt very genially disposed towards her host, each flower got a word of praise, each dish a laudatory comment. Indeed the whole place was charming in its miniature way.

"Since we have now both sung the praises of bachelorhood, it is meet that, as a woman, I add my regret at your resolve. A woman could be very happy in this house, which your yourself manage so admirably."

The two other guests applauded Diana's words, but the prince was determined to give a whimsical turn to the conversation, so he said:

"I attributed to you, Mademoiselle, a taste for light foods, ragouts, fancy bread, pasties, and souffles. And I hope your sons, gentlemen, will be exclusively fed by injections!"

"What do you use those exquisite Viennese bowls for? Or it is Schumann ware?" Diana turned the little plate over as she spoke.

"The backside gives us a foretaste of beauty to come," said the major thoughtlessly, and he hastened to remedy the false step by adding: "A connoisseur need only see a graceful figure from behind, he knows then what to expect."

Diana and the prince had been studying the mark on the china while the major blundered. Now the prince took up the point:

"Just as among the aristocracy, my dear Major. The coat-of-arms must first tell us of a nobleman's worth!"

Felix laughed somewhat wryly. His pride of birth made such an aspersion unsavoury. Yet he did not venture to protest, seeing that the prince's family was far older and far higher in the social scale than his own. Kopp, too, as a man of plebeian origin, held his peace, for he was well aware how touchy these aristocrats were when their democratic principles were openly approved of by a commoner.

Diana alone took the prince boldly to task:

"And yet Your Highness knows very well that armorial bearings do not make the man."

The prince looked at her delightedly, for any contradiction that helped the flow of conversation was welcome to him.

"You are right, Mademoiselle. But you speak positively and enigmatically, just as if you were drawing up a list of birthday honours in that brain of yours beneath its golden fillet—and certainly no princely diadem would hold its own beside your simple band."

With an unexpected gesture Diana tore off the ribbon, and declared hotly:

"I do not want a diadem! I am free!"

The three men looked at one another, and then at her as she lifted her chin in the air and shook out her locks.

Kopp once more was overcome with amazement as he contemplated this free-born nature, which made a strong appeal to his seafarer's heart. The major recognized the Diana he had known of old, the woman who had, by one look, filled his heart with courage and sent him along the highroad to fine achievement. The prince saw his first impression confirmed; he felt that he had before him an exemplar of his contention that, in some inexplicable way, certain natures, though they possess no genealogical tree, contain within themselves the germs of power, are, in fact, born rulers.

Diana who, after an outburst of this kind, was ever anxious to dissimulate its full meaning, beamed upon her companions, her smile effectually melting the haughty and wrathful expression her words had conjured up. Indeed, she was a little astonished at the effect she had created, and hastened to break the spell of silence which had fallen upon the company.

"All clear now?" she asked merrily.

The prince raised his glass and, though not, as a rule, fond of formalities, looked upon the occasion as a propitious one for a little friendly ceremony.

"Pereat vitta! Vivat vita!" he exclaimed clinking glasses with Diana.

All the guests followed suit. Then came a silence, during which each of the three was meditating the significance of the words. At length the prince said:

"Vitta, vittae, second declension, the sacerdotal fillet, which I may be allowed to recall to your memory, Gentlemen. Undeserved gift of the gods that this band should have come to my mind at a decisive moment."

"For my part," said Kopp, ruefully passing his hand over his bald head, "I am excluded from wearing my hair in the classical fashion usque ad finem I fear!"

"I, too, am being deforested," laughed the major. "We're all beaten in that respect by the chief."

As he uttered the last word, the three men simultaneously raised their eyes from their plates and looked at one another. The mention of Gregor's name acted like a signal they were all awaiting. But the prince, uncertain as to how Diana might be feeling about it, hurriedly changed the subject.

"I beseech you, Mademoiselle, another mouthful of my vol au vent! It is stuffed with pure south-east! I had the recipe from my great-grandmother, who had saved a few from the Confederation of the Rhine. This? A light Assmannshauser, not, unfortunately, a '93, but an '87—a year when mother sun fulfilled her maternal duties to perfection."

The talk ran upon old Rhenish. The captain had once found on board a sailing vessel the oldest wine of the century; it was so bitter that in the end all those who had partaken of it challenged one another to a fight. The major had a tale to tell of the three last bottles that remained of a present Old Fritz had made to his regiment. Diana, too, had her contribution to make.

"Do you know Etna? All wines grown on volcanic soil have fire within them. Lacrimæ Christi is one of the tamest. From Etna by way of Falernian to Stromboli, we get a rising scale of interest. The climax is Stromboli, but that wine is to be shunned."

"Why?"

"Because it makes the drinker mad."

"And—is that a thing to be shunned?" The major was still hoping to draw her out. "Could we not imagine that certain wines, let us say, old, but not too old, medium-dry Palugyai, would confer a boon if they sent us crazy?"

He did not venture to look at Diana as he spoke, hoping to remind her of an evening they had spent together in the former days. She took her revenge adroitly:

"Forbidden fantasies, Major. You must take precautions against any further deforestation!"

"How's that, is alcohol supposed to make the hair fall out?" and the prince ran his fingers over his fair head.

"In that case the chief must be a total abstainer," cried the major, trying to get a rise out of Diana.

This second reference to Gregor made it extremely difficult to turn the conversation once more on to dishes and wines. The men were nonplussed, but Diana said quite simply:

"Yes, he has a very nice head of hair."

"Twenty years ago he is said to have wrought havoc with fair ladies' hearts when he sat playing the piano and tossing his locks. My father used to tell me about him," said the prince.

Diana, who was determined not to lose her presence of mind among these men whom she knew to be her friends, took the prince up readily.

"Yes, he must have been a very different man in the days when he earned his name of 'mad Gregor.'"

"He must have been irresistible when he was young," rejoined the major.

"Even today, he scuds under full sail," said the captain.

"Perhaps it was not until he grew older that he became really interesting," added Diana calmly.

The men were attentive. They went forward cautiously, as if they were conspiring together.

"Interesting? Many people are that," hazarded the prince. "But Münsterberg—he seems to have some traits of Prince Louis Ferdinand rather than..."

"I venture to disagree," interrupted Diana.

"Why?" asked the three men simultaneously.

The prince laid his fruit-knife gently on his plate, the major leaned forward, the captain pushed his chair back a little way. Diana held a review of the six eyes that were fixed upon her. Then, speaking earnestly, she said:

"Youth seems to me to be the most rapturous time in a man's life, but only when he is sure of dying young, like our charming prince, or living to fade away as so many. The count, however, has grown so greatly in importance with the passage of the years, that I am inclined to believe a brilliant and superficial youth may..."

The men made no reply, so that her last words were left floating in the air until the prince made up his mind to blow them away.

"Does Mademoiselle fancy the count may enjoy a long life?"

"I did not say so."

"Since he has only now arrived at the point where his life's work and fundamental ideas have a chance of bearing fruit, may we not conclude that you had that in mind?"

"I make no prognosis, Your Highness, I am merely taking a backward glance."

"True. I hope you'll forgive me! But all the same, prognosis is extraordinarily interesting...."

"Yes, let's have your prognosis," cried the officers who had listened with keen attention. It was as if all three attributed the power of second sight to this strange woman opposite them. Again they urged:

"Your prognosis, please!"

Diana did not laugh, although the droll effect of this trio of voices tickled her sense of humour. She gazed in front of her, peeled off a long tongue of skin from her Jaffa orange, and said in a low voice, her eyes now fixed upon the fruit in her hand:

"I hardly know if it is fair to wish that a man who has remained so young should live to be old."

She sat silent now, not letting them into the secret of what had moved her. Her tone was strangely sad, and she had seemed, rather, to be speaking to herself than to her friends. A veil of melancholy fell upon the little company. The prince, remembering his duties as host, sprang up to dispel it. The others followed his example. All stood, their raised glasses in their hands, while he proposed a toast.

"It is New Year's Day! We will drink to the health of our honoured chief, Gregor Count of Münsterberg!"

The three men leaned over the table to clink glasses with Diana.

CHAPTER SIX

"Fancy a child of eleven reading such learned books!"

"I'm twelve," corrected Clemens, swinging his legs. "Don't you know that even now?"

"A thousand pardons," said Linnartz, bowing in mock reverence.

"And you? You must be at least a thousand," teased the child.

Gregor, who as usual after lunch had taken up the day's paper, drew the lad towards him.

"What makes you think the baron is a thousand years old?"

"Because he always treats me as if I were a kid. He's older than you, isn't he?"

"The other way about."

"How old are you, Papa?"

"Very old," answered Gregor evasively.

The boy continued to lean against his father's knee for a while, pensive and silent. Then, turning to Andreas, he asked:

"And you, Herr Seeland, how old are you?"

"Clemens, be quiet," said Olivia who had taken a seat in the background. "I told you only the other day that Herr Seeland is twenty-six years old."

Gregor, who had fallen into a brown study, roused himself at these words.

"Twenty-six," he repeated, and covered Andreas with his eyes.

"Yes, already, Excellency."

"Already? Then what is left for me to say, my dear Doctor?"

"I do not know. But when you were six-and-twenty did you not likewise say 'already'?"

"Never!"

"Were you so mature? Did your plans so satisfy you that you felt no uneasiness?"

"I was nothing but a junior barrister at the time. Yet such an idea would never have crossed my mind. Uneasiness as to my plans? As to a pretty wench, yes, but as to my plans? I hadn't any!"

"Strange," murmured Andreas.

"You are disappointed? Really, you take life too seriously."

"Can one take it too seriously?" interposed Olivia from her corner.

"I should like to say," Linnartz's strident voice was heard vociferating, "that he who always endeavours to..."

Gregor's eyes had passed over the baron to Olivia:

"It is well that we mortals should try to live our lives without exclamation marks. At least women, who are incapable of renouncing their dreams..."

"No," said Olivia coldly.

"... and can only find comfort in the poets," concluded Gregor, smiling at Andreas with a challenge in his eyes. "They have to live on dreams, unless they choose to scramble after the illusion of effective action. Had I adopted a poet's—beg pardon, a composer's—career, I should not have spent my time dreaming."

"What would you have done, Sir, if I may ask?" said Gregor's victim.

"Worked! Worked with feverish energy. Every day and all day. Yes. Perhaps then at six-and-twenty I might have felt uneasy lest I could not accomplish what I had set myself to do. Still, every man to his own temperament!"

He took leave of Olivia and the poet, and disappeared with Linnartz into his study.

Olivia sent the child away to its schoolroom. Then, turning to Andreas, she said:

"He has become your foe."

"And yours."

"He's been that these many years," she answered bitterly.

Ever since the baroness had learned what she wanted to know from Clemens, her husband, acting on her advice, had kept a note of the days when Andreas came to the house. His surveillance was an easy matter, for he had merely to ring and ask the servant how his mistress was, an act of ordinary courtesy. Then he would say:

"Is the countess at home?"

"The countess is upstairs reading with Herr Seeland."

He had noticed that the visits had mostly taken place during the count's absence from home, while Gregor was taking his afternoon ride, or away at Diana's. Today, the count had asked Linnartz to his study to run through some papers that had been accumulating, and the baron was determined not to let him escape this time. This "could not be postponed," that "could not be postponed"; he was untiring in finding important documents that needed discussion, needed Gregor's signature. An hour went by; half an hour more. Still the baron brought forward other important matters. At last Gregor lost patience.

"Just one thing more, Excellency, I must beg you to give me your decision. A moment," and he disappeared, apparently to fetch a document from his own office downstairs. But he had merely gone to make his usual inquiry, and, having received the hoped-for answer, he came jubilantly back again.

"It's the question of finding accommodation for the older archives. We're up to the ceiling with the stuff downstairs, and you once suggested, Excellency, that we might find room for them in your own apartments...."

"Certainly, certainly," said Gregor rising. "That will be all right. You can get to work on it as soon as you like."

"I could not do it entirely on my own responsibility. The dividing-up of the room which has hitherto been used for domestic purposes. I beg Your Excellency to show me just how you would like it arranged."

"Must it be done today?"

"As you like, Sir," said Linnartz, playing the faithful subordinate.

His chief thought: "What does the fellow mean by shrugging his shoulders like that?"

Aloud, he said:

"All right, come along. Which room had you in mind, the one where we used to put up guests, and perhaps the one with the balcony?"

"If the countess has no objection, it seems to me that they would be the most convenient."

Linnartz's heart was all of a flutter, for the count invariably went upstairs two at a time, and this pace was rather beyond the baron's capacities. Above all, however, he was excited at the expectation that his plans were about to be crowned with success—a success he had so long been hoping and longing for. He was thinking: "It's a sure thing, they can't escape now. Please God they will not simply be reading together on the balcony!" As he drew near the door he was on tenter-hooks. The count, who was blissfully unaware of his companion's agitation, thought: "How pleasantly these rooms are situated, so cut off from the rest of the house! If only Diana had come here as Olivia's guest...."

Linnartz opened the door and drew aside to allow his chief to pass in first. Thank God, the room was empty; they must be next door; and while he followed Gregor into the first room he glanced over at the door leading to the next. There, he knew, his victims must be. He wondered if they had locked themselves in. An unwise thing to do! His lascivious imagination conjured up what might be going on there, the disordered attire, rumpled hair. Would they hear steps approaching, voices speaking? Gregor was saying:

"The folios can be stacked up here ... tables as may be necessary... That will be all right...."

"And in the next room, Excellency?"

"Of course, the same arrangement as here."

Gregor went towards the door. Linnartz, with a remnant of decency, remained behind. Gregor opened the door. Linnartz trembled. Not a sound.

"Why, it's quite dark here," said Gregor. "The blinds are down. Where's the switch?" His hand travelled on the wall. He turned on the light.

One second of abysmal silence went by. Two seconds. Three. Linnartz peered in from behind. He saw Olivia on a divan, propping herself up on her hand, while Andreas stood opposite her, hard pressed against the wall. Both, blinded by the sudden light, had raised a hand to shield their eyes, stretching it out towards the electric globe thus all unconsciously assuming an attitude of shame. As if suddenly turned to stone, the count stood in the doorway, a black shadow against the staring lamp.

Andreas was the first to recover his wits; he had foreseen the disaster as soon as the voices came through the door and was therefore better prepared than the others. He now took two steps towards the count, and in a hoarse voice he began:

"Count..."

The spell was broken. All three moved. Olivia got up and stood behind Andreas, looking at her husband with haughty and hostile eyes whose expression was colder than he had ever seen before. At the same time Gregor marched upon Andreas with uplifted fist. Whilst almost simultaneously Linnartz sprang towards him from the rear, holding him back, and whispering in a warning voice: "Excellency!"

Another pause, not so long as the first, ensued. Then the count turned half round and said in a low voice, tense with wrath:

"Go!"

Andreas made an apology for a bow to the countess, and, passing Linnartz, moved towards the door. But the count, who by now had guessed the part Linnartz had played, was filled with so great a loathing for the intriguer, that even now he wished to shield Olivia against him. He, therefore, slowly left the room, closing the door after him as he went.

That same evening the major and the captain called upon Andreas at his hotel, and presented him with the count's challenge. As they turned to go away, Othello pushed open the bedroom door and sprang towards the strangers. His master seized him by the collar, and it was as much as Andreas could do to hold the door back while the two men made their exit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Gregor! Please, no more," pleaded Diana softly as she shook her curls. "My lips are worn out, and I shall never be able to kiss again!"

"A thousand times more—and me, only me—until we die."

He threw himself upon her and looked deep into her eyes.

"Brown, deep brown. Any red in them? The red of a deer? No, a falcon. Did your father know beforehand what you would grow up to be that he chose the name Diana?"

"If you will let me go, I will tell you all about it."

With the swift movement of a stripling, he sprang up from the wide bed, slipped into his dressing gown which he wrapped round him, tying the cord with the same care with which, as lieutenant, he had buttoned up his uniform tunic, pushed his fingers through his hair, and flung himself into the big arm-chair by the fire. Holding his hands out towards the blaze, he spoke softly to her over his shoulder, a playful note in his voice.

"Diana."

"Gregor."

"No, say it the way you did that first time when you were riding."

"Gregor."

He laughed.

"Go on, tell me all about it."

"Well, it happened over there in Macedonia," she began, bringing a footstool towards the hearth, and sitting down on it at his feet. "My father, you must know, is very wise; he can interpret dreams, understands about magnetic currents, has studied Swedenborg and Leonardo...."

"The portrait in that portfolio is...?"

"Yes, it is he. He told me he had believed my mother would die in giving birth to me, for he thought I was going to be a boy, and he knew that if she gave birth to a boy she would die. So firm was his conviction, that he was going to call me Tristan, because Tristan's mother, too, had died at his birth. When I turned out to be a girl, he said to himself: She will have many masculine elements in her make-up, so I'll call her Diana. Five years later my brother came into the world, and that same night my mother passed away."

She ceased. Gregor's hand lay lightly on her head. She seemed suddenly to have become agitated, her thoughts elsewhere as she prodded the wood in the fireplace. The logs fell apart, and he had to gather them together, very cautiously, so as not to disturb her as she rested her head on his knee.

"Are you cold?" she asked after a while. "Where had I got to?"

It was not her habit to be so absent-minded. Yet this night she had constantly been distrait. Could she have something on her mind? Was she frightened? He tried to shake off his thoughts. But he had come near the truth. Diana was filled with an anxiety which she would have hidden from him had she been able. Before his arrival, when she had received a tiny note from the major telling her what had taken place, she had thought: "The feeling of security is what makes the victor! If he is confident, I shall certainly do nothing to shake his courage." Yet when she saw him so self-reliant, in the mood of a man who has at last become master of some unpleasant perturbation, her own doubts had been laid to rest. Again she tried to rouse herself from her meditations. She turned her eyes towards him and said tenderly:

"Are you cold, Gregor?"

"Why should I be?—Well, your mother died. You told me something about her before. She was beautiful."

"Yes, but do you know what she was? Shall I tell Your Excellency a secret?"

She smiled as she addressed him thus formally, and looked up at him with the inscrutable air of the professional story-teller.

"I hear and obey," he said, smiling back at her.

They sat silent. An atmosphere of security seemed to envelop them, such as they had never experienced before, and had never thought it possible to achieve. Peace and contentment coupled with a slight feeling of lassitude pervaded their bodies and their minds, as they settled down in the comfortable warmth of the log fire. Had they not lain for long in the ardour of love's embraces?

"My great-grandmother, or, rather, her mother, held the crown of Poland concealed within her house. It was in the days following one of the partitions. The fugitive king—or maybe he was only the pretender—in any case he was the son of the old king—came to her estate in order, secretly, to kiss the royal crown. The lady was very beautiful, and she was a widow. Romantic as were the kings of those days, after kissing the crown he kissed its lovely guardian, and thus it was that she gave birth to my grandfather. My family has always tried to pooh-pooh the old legend, but I have positive proof of its veracity. We still have the medallion he gave her on the morning when he bade farewell. The features on the medallion are identical with those of the picture which hangs in the museum at Rapperswyl, where all the Polish monarchs hang in rows. Does the story please you?"

"And so you've got mighty ancestors too. I am overwhelmed with it all. What more can you have? Yours is youth, and beauty, and intelligence—and now you have added to all this, ancestors that wore the kingly crown." He looked down at her with paternal ecstasy.

"You are as gallant in your talk as the lovers were in the old romances," she laughed up at him.

"The style has stuck to me from my youth," he answered ironically. "My mother was not nearly such a grand lady as yours, but she, too, was a beautiful woman."

"Did she die young?" No sooner had she asked the question than she thought: "It is strange how my mind dwells on the idea of death, tonight."

"Haven't I told you? This was the manner of her dying:—I was about seven-and-twenty at the time. She had been ailing for a long time, and her home life was not happy. Well, one day I got a wire: 'Come at once, Mother very ill.' It so happened that on the day previous I had received my first order, the Danebrog cross—of course I had not deserved it, I just chanced to be at dinner with the Danish prime minister with whom we were negotiating at the time. There are few really pretty decorations in our country, so that a nicely enamelled cross, rather cheap to be sure, but with a quite charming blue-and-white ribbon, would naturally attract a good deal of comment. At home I found my mother in bed, very feeble. I had always been rather a handful, never made a success of anything—except music, and escapades, and, again, music. Father's best hope for me was a job in the orchestra at some spa or other. But Mother always stood up for me. She used to say: 'Do let the youngster be, he'll make good in the end, never fear.' So when I bent over her as she lay dying, I showed her the cross on my breast, my first decoration. She fingered it gently and said nothing. Then, suddenly, she pressed it to her lips, kissing it as if it were a crucifix. Tears rolled down her temples, wetting the pillow. She said: 'Thank you, Gregor, I have always had faith in you. Now you can prove to your father and the rest of the world that I was right.' She put her arm round my neck—and soon she had passed away, holding my cross in her hand."

Diana had risen to her feet as he spoke, and now he bowed his grey head, resting it on her hands. She, too, was profoundly stirred. A look of ageless compassion came over her face as she gazed down on this man whom nature had endowed with physical beauty, and an intellect bordering on genius. He who had made himself the master of the art of dissembling as well as of self-control, was nevertheless, although thirty years had now elapsed since the tragical event he was recalling, broken at its recollection. Was he really sobbing? She felt that at this moment the restraint he had exercised over himself during the last twenty-four hours was suddenly broken down, and that this overwhelming grief was a tardy and unexpected reaction from the shock of yesterday's discovery.

"Gregor," she whispered tenderly laying her head against his so that the brown and the grey locks mingled. "Gregor, I am here."

"Stay—by—me—Diana."

The words were a new revelation to her of the man's loneliness. Suddenly he sprang up, pushed his hair back, hastily wiped his eyes, and said with forced joviality:

"I'm sorry, what a fool I've been! Last time, ten, twelve years ago I said to myself that three duels were a good number, and it would be well to stop at that. Apparently there's to be a fourth. That's a handsome number, too. And even if there had to be ten," his voice rang out into the room, "I should fight them all to protect Olivia from slander."

The first time during all these months he had ever uttered Olivia's name in Diana's presence! Too late he realized what he had done. He rushed over to where she stood, seized her hands and covered them with kisses:

"Forgive me—my darling—beloved—Diana—forgive me."

"What have I to forgive?" she asked earnestly. "Is it not a fine thing that you wish to shield her for her own sake, and not merely because it happens to be the custom?"

"And Linnartz, what do you make of him?"

"He's been trying to do it for some time."

"To do what?"

"Bring about your fall, Gregor."

"There are other ways...."

"Did he not try them—in vain?"

"Was the baroness working with him do you think?"

"Undoubtedly."

"The brutes! But when all is over—— Next week I've got to go to court for the birthday celebrations; I shall be in Berlin and shall demand his removal—even if I have to make a cabinet question of it."

"That's precisely what I advised you to do three weeks ago."

"Yes, and if I had at that time brought a little more pressure to bear on the Austrian minister, he'd have sent that devil of a poet..." He pulled himself up. "Forgive me," he pleaded, drawing her to him on the sofa. "I'm sorry—he was your friend—well, there's nothing to be done now—he'll have to do penance for his sins—rather young, but he has always lived fast—— What do you think?"

He fancied her preoccupied with a woman's memories of Andreas while he was speaking. But her thoughts were quite differently engaged. She was coolly calculating the hazards of the impending duel, remembering Andreas's inaptitude with firearms. Had he not given her a demonstration of it that day in the shooting-range? Again she considered the risks an opponent must run when faced by an unskilled marksman....

"Twenty paces, did you say?"

She closed her left eye, raised her right arm, and aimed an imaginary weapon at the door.

"An exchange of three shots? Who's the umpire?"

"The prince."

"At six?"

"Six-thirty."

Diana got up, went towards the fireplace, pushed the logs together, and leaned on the marble mantelpiece, staring at the little clock.

"It is two," she said in a strangely cold voice.

The practical, everyday tone, which she had assumed as armour against the emotional strain under which she was labouring, was misconstrued by her lover to mean that she was deep in memories of Andreas. Jealousy, which Gregor had hitherto kept in leash for her sake, now flamed up with redoubled force against this young rival whom he hoped soon to put out of action. His voice was gloomy as he exclaimed:

"Diana."

"Gregor."

The two names, which so shortly before they had tossed towards one another like gaily coloured balls, now fell darkly through the night.

"Did you—love this poet?" he asked at length.

"At one time I loved him," she answered calmly, after a slight pause.

He thought:

"Will she speak as calmly of me, saying 'at one time,' when another than I asks her the same question? A chain in which I am no more than a link? In days gone by, the rôles were the other way about...."

His agitation increased.

"And he you?"

"He loves the countess."

"Not you, Diana, no longer you?"

His question was uttered in a tone of such urgent need, such poignant longing, that she turned towards him in a sudden impulse. Her heart was full of pity at the sight of this man whom jealous doubts had thus mastered after all that had happened between them and after he had surprised Andreas with Olivia; yet she realized that it was solely on her account that he was thus overwhelmed with anxiety and mistrust; had he not asked only about Andreas's feelings towards her, not the other way about?

He, for his part, as he now saw her standing before him, the contour of her body gleaming through her thin silken nightgown as she stood with her back to the fire, seemed transported to another sphere, and everything around him seemed like the memory of a dream. The fine room, built in the Arab style, the heavy curtains, the figure of the young woman by the hearth—all this on the night before a duel.... Had he not lived through it once already, long ago? As if under compulsion, unconscious of his movements, he got up, and went towards the apparition, which advanced a step to meet him. The vision stretched out hands, his hands reached out likewise. What was the matter? What was the burden of grief weighing upon this moment of time? Was she perhaps a spirit come to take him far away? She was close to him, and he saw that she had mighty pinions, and in her right hand a torch hanging down towards the ground....

Her hand pressed his in silence, and suddenly he knew that her life at that present moment was bound up in his. His gaze, which had been fixed and hard, softened, and she saw his eyes looking kindly down into her own.

"Where have you been, my dear?"

He sighed deeply, as if freed from a torpor.

"I seemed—to be—in a dense—fog. Is that you, Diana? Is it you?"

He sank into a chair, drew her down on to his knee, pressed his lips against her, wrapping her about in his arms as if he were hugging the very essence of life and youth to his heart.

"Stay with me!"

Very softly the words were spoken, and it seemed to her as if he were afraid of giving voice to a presentiment that he was about to be torn apart from her; it seemed as if he were melting away in her very arms, vanishing like a shadow, a thought.

But she shook off the terror, smiled up at him, and said:

"You stay with me!"

Never before had Gregor felt this steeled body nestling against him with such passionate self-surrender.

CHAPTER EIGHT

For an hour Olivia had lain motionless upon the divan in the guest's room. Then she was seized with anxiety, not so much as to the issue of the duel, but rather as to the possibility of seeing Andreas again. He could not come to her; she could not go to his hotel. Next morning she sought out the prince in his office. She was hatless, for thus she had left her apartment to come down to see him. Her whole aspect and the unusualness of such a visit (she had never entered the offices at the embassy before) were a surprise.

"Prince, listen to me. I want—I must—this evening—I must see Herr Seeland once more. You will lend me your rooms?"

It sounded more like a command than a request. He understood, drew his keys from his pocket, and handed her the one she needed.

"Thanks. Thank you very much."

Late that same evening, on foot, muffled in a veil, she entered the little flat. It was empty. Soon after, there was a gentle tap on the door. She opened. Andreas stood outside.

There had been no extensive preparations for the visitors. On the buffet, fresh water and wine, cigarettes, and a few biscuits, were just as the prince had left them. He had sent his servants away till the morrow, had, himself, gone through the rooms to see that all was as it should be. In the dining-room where, on New Year's Eve, they had drunk the count's health, he paused for a moment and smiled ironically. Here, two weeks later, the count's wife was to spend what would perhaps be the last hours she would ever spend with her husband's rival. He put on his hat, took his walking-stick, then went back to his bedroom to readjust his tie in front of the mirror. His eye fell upon the perfectly made bed with its faultless coverlet, and he whistled softly as he puffed at his cigarette.

"Honi soit..."

At first Olivia seemed agitated, and her lover thought:

"She's not at her best tonight."

She would stare mutely into nothingness, and then suddenly make a wild gesture as if to pull him to her, following this with another gesture which thrust him away. She got up and paced to and fro in the little room, backwards and forwards between the window, the chairs, and the divan. She spoke of Clemens, of divorce, of Linnartz, once even referred to her mother in Dalmatia, about whom she usually thought with contempt. But Andreas soon realized that all this was merely an effort to bridge the gulf that had yawned between them when these two persons of simple nature had suddenly been brought face to face with the fact that they were guilty of adultery.

Andreas had always looked indulgently and even reverently upon her blind gratification of her instincts; he had interpreted the inability on her part to speak, a dumbness which was wont to follow upon moments of ardent ecstasy, as a symbol of the ineffable which he, the plastic artist, was excluded from experiencing. His alert and active mind had found a haven in the churlish silences of this woman, and it was that more than anything else which had swept him along into the stormy waters in which he now found himself. He had never conceived of his passion or of hers as appertaining to the courses of everyday life, and he was at a loss to understand why this everyday life should now intrude upon a province outside its sphere. Yesterday's happenings left him cold, they did not seem to him to be part of the world he and she had created in common—a community based on the sensuous and yet quite above and beyond the circle of the senses, intangible, in no way belonging to the realm of reason.

Now, when he and Olivia were alone and together once more, he too was aware of the same inhibition within himself which had caused her so much disquietude; and he who had vowed himself to Olivia with that first look into her languorous eyes as he gazed from afar across the wide expanse of blue carpet, felt that he was hedged about with the identical constraints as she. Had it been otherwise, the insatiable thirst which consumed them would have driven them into one another's arms immediately the door had closed upon the outside world, and the turbulent waters of passion would have submerged them, leaving them with neither regrets nor shame when they came to the surface again. Today the banality of a conventional discovery stood like a barrier between them. In the twilight hours, as he sat with Othello in his room, the thought of death sprang at him, attacking him unexpectedly, from the rear. But now he had no other thought at all than to come to some sort of an understanding with this woman.

An hour of torturing suspense found them at last in that sphere which their natures shared in common: their passion. Olivia, wearied with pacing the tiny room like a wild beast in a cage, had thrown herself, distraught and exhausted, upon the divan, and Andreas, who felt that at any cost this state of tension must be snapped, flung himself upon her and with shameless cynicism took that which in no way he desired. And yet, maybe, it was this rough handling which she needed for the appeasement of her uneasy soul. She yielded to his embraces with the frosty delight of a hetaira, wrapping herself round in the mantle of fleshly lust as if in defiance, as if to shield herself from a foe.

Yet when they emerged from this dread battlefield, they had found themselves and they had found each other. The lassitude with which love's combat had so often before made limp their limbs, filling their souls with a strange and voluptuous horror, was now, after this present possession, bordering as it did upon the realm of hate, to leave them benumbed, inert, as if death's hand were upon them. Bitterness, the bitterness Olivia had dreamed of these twenty years, the draught whose waters she had first tasted in Andreas's arms, now submerged her, covering her face, her body, as with a grievous mask. She felt the flesh of her cheeks, her brow, her chin, her throat, filmed over as it were with a strange, green patina like that which covers very ancient bronzes, while her body seemed crushed and broken beneath the man who lay like a corpse across her.

A chance movement at last released them from the spell. Andreas said:

"Why continue?"

The words fell into the great pool of tragical silence with a sound as warm and gentle as that of woodwind after brass.

"We should soon have been consumed in our own fires. It is well that the man should die, his heart pierced by so tiny a thing as a bullet. But the woman must live!"

She scarcely heard what he said. All she felt sure of was that he had surrendered himself to his destiny, that a strange, far-away voice was telling her what she had known since yesterday: "It may not be just, but it is perfectly logical, that Andreas should perish at Gregor's hands." Age-long and primeval things had surged up within her. In the half-ruinous crypts of her soul, after millennial sleep, feelings, judgments, rights, belonging to an ancient line whose origins were lost in the mists of time, now stirred, revealing to her, who had imagined such primeval impulses to be dead, that she was indeed a true daughter of her race, and that in her veins too the same blood flowed. Vague memories of fights long past merged themselves with present-day combats in her brain. In the mechanical processes of thought, Gregor once more stood before her as a young man, the descendant of a long succession of counts, bearing every advantage in his hands; for now he was to use the weapons familiar to all members of his caste, and to use them against a stripling who had moved away from the customary pursuits of several generations of learning in an inward, spiritual sense only, not by practical experience. She, who had always been out of tune with his plans for worldly advancement, who had been ever more and more strongly convinced that his urge towards the practical field of politics and diplomacy was in truth only the outcome of imaginative yearnings, felt today more keenly than ever that he was a poet first, last, and all the time, and that his invasion of the practical world would recoil on his own head.

Andreas swung his legs over the divan and sat on the edge. Olivia leaned on her elbow as was her custom, and surveyed the length of her body. Then she said softly, as if lying in wait for his reply:

"Not long now, Andreas."

The words, and the queer way she added his name as an afterthought, struck him by their strange ambiguity. He tried to jest:

"You are right, it is two o'clock," he said, glancing at the little timepiece over the fireplace.

He did not know Diana's bedroom, nor could he know what she was doing at the moment; and yet her form, her voice, appeared clearly to his memory, at that instant when she, too, was saying the same words while glancing at a similar clock. Incontinently he asked Olivia: "Where's the count? At home?"

"He went out before I left. The servant said he had gone off in the motor boat."

She held her peace and he, too, was silent. But Olivia's thoughts ranged wide, and she asked after a considerable interval:

"Do you still love Diana?"

He flushed a little for she had read his thoughts, and countered with:

"Do you love the count?"

Olivia stirred. She put her right foot to the ground, and at the same time drew the coverlet over her naked limbs as far as the waist. Then she leaned her right arm on to the low table at the head of the divan, and, drawing up her knee, clasped it round with her left hand. A smile, at once wise and tragical, flitted across her habitually solemn features. She gazed straight before her.

There rose upon her vision a castle overlooking the sea. Wedding festivities were in progress. Two evenings earlier Gregor had been sitting near her in her low-ceilinged, wainscoted room, and he had watched her, from the embrasure in the window, combing her long, golden hair. Suddenly he had sprung to his feet, had seized her in his arms, had stepped over to the door and slipped the bolt, and had had his will of the astonished bride. For him it was probably no more than a dare-devil escapade, the gratification of a young man's vanity; but her heart went out to him in thanks, for her stormy nature felt a repugnance of displaying the squeamishness of a maiden who, though betrothed, has not yet been legally wedded. Many years later, in the midst of the disappointments of her married life, her imagination was still pleasurably stimulated by the thought of that adventurous impropriety which had been the herald of their nuptial day.

"At one time I loved him," she said at last in a calm voice strangely resembling the tone in which Diana was speaking those same words at that same hour. Her alto gave the phrase a richer, fuller sound, maybe; she uttered it, too, with greater solemnity to match the heaviness of her nature as compared with Diana's elasticity and lightsomeness.

Like an endless band, her life with Gregor unrolled itself before her vision in retrospect. They were out hunting, the horn sounded in the air, she was riding in advance of the others. Now she was walking slowly, like a beast heavy with young. Those were the months just before Clemens was born. She saw Gregor's gleeful face as he tossed the baby, and how he played with the child in those early years. Then she saw him drift away from her, she heard the whispers of friends, the advice of the family doctor, her mother's anger; it seemed as if her own recollection of these troublous days was becoming dimmer, as if the measures taken by her relatives, their aid and their claims, were receding more and more into the background. Now she was always alone, she took no further part in the hunts, but rode by herself, galloped, put her horse to jumps that only a madman would attempt. She fell and lay for long where she had fallen. Peasants found her and carried her home. Long months she kept her bed, motionless. It was at that time she had acquired her taste for recumbency. She read much, read and pondered. Sometimes she would write letters which were never posted. She probed and sampled the many who came to her house; in her, distrust of the higher circles of society grew to irony, irony to cynicism. A sculptor had once wished to model her, but Gregor had refused to let her sit to the man; such opposition roused her desire, and for a while she was restless and agitated. Then the post of ambassador had come their way. She saw their new, palatial dwelling, heard the congratulations, pictured again the mighty waters upon whose bosom she wished, all in vain, to sail alone, gazed upon the immemorial park which reminded her so poignantly of the home of her fathers, contemplated the blue carpet she loved, alone, all alone, always alone, for Gregor had long since vanished from the landscape, and even the child was lost in distant mist-wreaths. Now, the poet entered her blue room, and she was recalled from her dream, back into the world of reality, back to the present hour.

Meanwhile Andreas had been gazing his fill at the majestic creature before him, the woman who lay as it seemed on a rock emerging from a vast blue sea, her eyes grave, overshadowed by a dark and monstrous bird with pinions wide spread behind her. The beat of those giant wings caused a wind which ruffled his hair; he knew that those were the wings of the angel of death and he gazed on them unafraid. The vision and the night filled his passionate nature with a contentment he had never experienced before, so that as she now looked up at him her eyes met a countenance at once so earnest and so taciturn that she felt she must be gazing into her own soul.

They suddenly realized that this was the moment of their leave-taking. Slowly they drew nearer to each other, body to body, lip to lip, in a long farewell.

Four hours later three carriages drew up near a little pinewood where many westerners had ere this met in mortal combat. Gregor was accompanied by Kopp and the major; Andreas by two compatriots from the Austrian embassy; the prince by a doctor. Abdul ran by the side of the first carriage, eager as if going to the chase. He had escaped just as his master was leaving the embassy and none had been able to catch him.

It was raining. The fog lay like a canopy over their heads as they took up their positions. The prince tested the pistols, handed them to the seconds for their examination; hardly a word was spoken. Andreas was wearing a grey morning suit; Gregor his loose and easy blue jacket. The prince measured the distance; gave each a weapon.

Andreas was himself amazed at his own coolness. On the drive hither he had been thinking: "Nikolai will publish my last poems.... My sister will hang my portrait in the old garden house, next to father's, in a black frame...." Now, when they had led him to his place and he could look his opponent in the eyes, he thought: "Yes, he is a lovable man; I understand Diana's choice better than I do Olivia's. I wonder if Diana will weep when she gets my letter? I have never seen her cry...."

Gregor was thinking: "He is still very young." And immediately thereafter: "Scoundrel! What is the countess to him?" He looked towards the prince from whom the signal was to come.

The prince asked:

"Ready?"

"Ready," came the reply.

"Fire!"

The two men stood unscathed.

The prince thought:

"What madness! As if a woman's part in life were not to bind men in friendship rather than to separate them!"

While thus thinking he stepped up and changed the weapons.

"Attention! Fire!"

Gregor fell to the ground. The prince raised an arm. Kopp, who was holding the dog in leash, was dragged forward by the outraged animal. Doctor and umpire hastened to the wounded man's side. Gregor did not stir, a little blood was oozing through his clothes on the left side. The doctor cast a look of intelligence at the men who had gathered round. The prince formally declared the duel at an end.

At first Andreas did not in the least understand what had happened. He looked inquiringly at his seconds. One of them went over to where the count lay. Then he beckoned to Andreas. The young man approached. He found four men busied round Gregor. The doctor was giving an injection of camphor; he was pouring brandy into the prostrate man's mouth. Five minutes passed. At last Gregor opened his eyes, looked at the circle of men, realized from the expression on their faces and from his own feeling of weakness, from a strange sensation near his heart, that all was over with him.

The others pushed Andreas forward. The count contemplated the young man for a while, critically rather than wrathfully. He was silent. Then he held out his hand and Andreas took it in his own. "Impossible," the poet thought. "He cannot be more than slightly wounded. He'll be all right again in a few minutes. Then..." He felt himself tapped on the shoulder; he drew back, slowly, as if his senses were befogged. Abdul was whining at his master's side. The dog had growled at Andreas's approach. Then, he laid a paw ever so lightly on the master's breast, cautiously, a caress as airy as gossamer lest the touch should hurt the dying man.

Gregor tried to rise. Impossible! He mused: "Better lie quiet, absolutely quiet, then, perhaps, I'll be able to say a few words." With a look, he bade the prince come nearer. The other three withdrew. The prince knelt close beside him. Gregor looked him in the eyes, assembling his forces for a last endeavour. Then, very slowly, in short-pulsed sentences:

"I beg you—to see that—Muthesius is not—given the post—as ambassador—otherwise—everything will be ruined—Tell His Majesty—yourself—personally, Prince—personally—I would recommend—Winterthur—He shares my views—Promise me you'll..."

The prince slipped his hand into the limp hand beside him. He knew his chief was nearing the end. A few minutes went by. Again the lips moved, but all Gregor had strength to say was:

"My love to—my love to—the ladies...."

His eyes glazed over; another fifteen seconds passed; he fell back, dead.

CHAPTER NINE

"No messenger yet, and it's nine o'clock. Mary, can't you see a boat on the water?"

"Nothing at all."

"Have you sent Ali on to the roof to look out?"

"Ali's been up there since seven."

"Mary, tell them to saddle my horse. I'll go myself..."

"But suppose they take the water-way?"

"You're right. Oh my God, this waiting!..."

When Diana had let Gregor out by the garden gate in the chilly hour before sunrise, she had said in her heart: "Never again. You will see him no more." It was only by exercising supreme control that she had been able to give him a parting look of encouragement and comfort. But as she stood once more on the balcony watching the day emerge in rain from beyond the grey horizon of the sea, her hopes revived: "Was he not always the lucky one?" To which an inner voice replied: "No, he was lonely."—"But does not the world spirit need him more than it does Andreas?"—"Who can tell?"—"Andreas is young; maybe the soul of a genius slumbers within him."—"And even so, what does a bullet care?"

Half past nine. Ali calls out that he sees a little cloud of dust in the distance; then a rider. Diana hastens up to the roof. She may perhaps be able to guess the news by the rider—Felix? Kopp? A servant?—— The prince! Gregor is dead! Only on Gregor's account would the prince be the messenger—— In any other case it would be Felix....

Yet might it not mean that both had been wounded? Over and over again the words were hammered out by her pulsating heart. Groping blindly she again found herself in the hall. "What am I hoping for? What am I still afraid of? Mary! Mary, go to meet him.—No, Mary, stay, don't go.—Ali, open the door." Forcibly she kept herself in the hall, waiting. The prince approached. He bit his lips. Diana dared not put the question that tortured her. At last, as if Diana were concerned with one only of the two duellists, he said:

"A bullet in the heart, at the second shot. Eight minutes later, he was dead."

Slowly Diana turned away, and leaned against a pillar. For a while she remained thus, saying nothing. Certainty, even of the worst, brought peace, of a kind; and yet her whole being seemed dumb and void. A painful clarity of vision made her aware of every detail in the material world, and she saw the little steamers plying up and down on the waters. "Ah yes, the nine o'clock boat. Late again," she thought.

Now she turned to her guest.

"You are hot with your ride," said she. "It is very good of you to have come yourself.... His household is probably... Who told the countess? You?"

The prince nodded. She begged him to be seated, herself took a chair, crossing her legs in her short serge skirt.

Again she was speaking: "Olivia has much strength of character, and has probably been just as anxious on the poet's behalf...."

He thought: "She's steeling herself by speaking of others. Does she feel it deeply?"

He rose to go.

"Already?"

"Sorry, but I'm afraid I must. There's much to do. We have to discuss the funeral arrangements. We may have to take his remains back to Germany."

"Of course—— But—did the count say anything—?"

"Yes, to me. Recommendations as to his successor."

"Winterthur," said Diana quietly.

"Yes," confirmed the prince, realizing how fully Gregor had trusted this woman. Then he took leave.

But as he reached the door, Eduard turned:

"Forgive me, but I forgot... I have one other thing to tell you—a message...."

"To me?"

Diana, who knew how reserved Gregor was by nature, was deeply moved at the thought that her lover had sent her a farewell greeting. The prince had besought the major to let him come to break the news to Diana solely on account of this last message. He found it difficult to speak.

"You will have to judge for yourself. The very last words the count uttered were: 'My love to the ladies'..."

Diana had listened with dilated eyes; she gripped the back of a chair; she stood silent. Then she sat down and was about to hide her face in her hands, when suddenly great tears were coursing down her cheeks. The prince, uncertain whether he should go or not, took a step towards the door. But she stayed him with a gesture, and he brought up a chair and sat down beside her.

Like water purling through a wood, this cool, proud woman's tears flowed down her face. From afar he had always admired her amazing self-possession, but even in this moment of her grief he could only think of Gregor's happy end. He had the melancholy recognition that he would never be able to woo and win a woman of this kind.

A long time passed before Diana raised her head. With a calm mien she now looked at her visitor. Then she wiped her eyes, smiled, and with a complete change of voice, like one who does not wish to disturb a sleeper's rest, she murmured:

"What a tender thing to have said; only a fully mature man could have sent such a message. Don't you think so too? I wonder if the countess will understand? Oh, surely she cannot fail to do so. Tell her, please tell her Prince, that by these words of a dying man she and I..."

From the landing-stage came voices, interrupting her whispered plea. She listened without stirring; the prince did likewise. He would have given much that nothing should come to trouble her in this, her hour of weakness and of confiding trust. At last he rose and went on to the balcony to see who the intruder might be. Simultaneously, Diana recognized the voice as that of the major.

"What can he be wanting?" she said petulantly.

"Can't think! He knew that I..."

Felix came in; hesitated a moment when he saw how pensive she was; then he said urgently:

"Forgive me for coming so early. No time to waste. Mademoiselle, you must go, at once."

Diana, whose heart had expanded under the influence of the dead man's last words and the noble dignity of her living friend, was refractory to any interruption, and was especially offended by the major's loud voice and inopportune intervention. She asked scathingly:

"Go? And why, pray? I have no intention of going."

"Sorry to insist, but the matter is urgent."

Diana got up, tossed her head, pulled her blouse to rights in her waistband, and said in a changed voice:

"What has happened?"

Felix was wounded by her manner. He assumed an official tone, and announced, as if he were reading a telegram:

"Just heard, that ministry here, been informed duel on your account. Foreign secretary wishes to profit by fact that you are temporarily unprotected to have you arrested as spy. Embassy cannot intervene on your behalf. Linnartz taken over running of affairs. Advise you to go at once."

Diana was by now regaining her usual clarity of mind.

"In that case I shall have to go. But I shall need a passport if I go by rail or passenger steamer, and arrest will be practically inevitable.... A little boat will be the only way of escape."

Felix nodded, and a twinkle in his eye was an indication of how much he relished the similarity of her nature and his when there was a question of having to make a decision or to take a comprehensive survey of the matter in hand.

"You have immediately grasped the sole possibility. I have already sent word to old Mohammed...."

"Thoroughly trustworthy fellow, in spite of being an Arab," interjected the prince.

"He has two dhows, a big one and a little one."

"We'll take the larger," said Diana promptly.

Felix nodded.

"It'll be ready in half an hour. The farther quay, south of the commercial harbour. Can you be ready by then?"

"Ready? Of course. Mary must come too."

"Impossible. Too conspicuous."

"Is she to be left to their tender mercies on my account? Mary goes too—or I stay."

"Very well. We'll do our best. But be quick."

"How are we to evade the port authorities?"

"I'm going with you. I've a free pass. Once through the danger zone, I'll land."

"Thanks."

She gave him a look full of friendliness, and offered him her hand. The major stooped over it, and kissed it. A thought crossed her mind.

"What about money? Can I get a cheque through to the bank?"

"Out of the question. They are sure to advise the bank first thing. Knowing this, I've brought what's necessary. A little bag of gold! Can't risk a cheque. Where shall I tell him to go?"

"Mohammed will know best.—Mary, your shawl. Bring me my coats. Yes, all of them, and yours.—Has Mohammed food aboard?"

"Of course—à l'orientale!"

"Good.—Are you coming with us, Prince? We'll drop you at the bridge. Ali can take your horse back to town."

She disappeared upstairs. Footsteps hurrying overhead, orders.

"Mary, my top boots. No, not those; the brown ones without nails."

Meanwhile she went over to the writing-table, and took three little packages out of one of the drawers.

"Mary, I'd better have my sword-stick. Not there, next the bed. Hurry up. No, don't bother about my dresses, they'll have to be left behind."

She went back into her bedroom, gave a cursory glance round. The arm-chair caught her eye, the one in which Gregor had sat last night. She stroked the leather of it; then went over to the sofa and shook up the cushions. Something fell out as she did so, something violet in colour. A garter she had hunted for that morning.

"He hid it," she thought. "I wonder when? Quite recently, anyway. He took it, and hid it."

She put it away in her pocket. Very lightly she ran her finger-tips over the embroidered bedspread.

"Good-bye," she whispered.

At the door, she turned for a last look.

The two men waited patiently below.

"Pressing danger?" asked the prince as soon as Diana had left the room.

"In two hours they'll be here."

"But she's not in any way compromised as far as I can see."

"No, but Linnartz is spreading rumours."

"Sure?"

"The first thing he did when he learned of the chief's death was to give the ministry the tip to clear Mademoiselle out. His pretext: the duel was on her account. The Linnartz factory has been busy!"

"The man is taking his revenge for something or other, I feel sure," exclaimed the prince.

Diana came back, wrapping the packets of letters in a cloth which she secured in her waistband. Her two friends noted that on her left side she carried her revolver in its brown leather case. She was wearing a brown sailcloth cap, had a small field-glass slung over her shoulder, and flourished an elegant cane in her hand. The major recognized this last item as a souvenir from Lyons. Felix handed her the little bag of gold, and she gave him a wire.

"Please have this sent to Herr Scherer. Send it in code. I've left absolutely nothing in writing behind."

They all three stepped forward towards the landing-stage. Ali and the other servants were scurrying hither and thither. Mary came, lugging her paraphernalia. Diana jumped into the boat. As they pushed off she suddenly fancied Gregor sitting at the helm just as he had sat so many times during these months coming and going to and from the little haven. It was the same boat he had used.

"Our own tiny harbour," she thought. "He used to laugh in that spot, and I with him. Am I to come here a second time?"

The major was worrying: "If only that idiot of a harbourmaster is not on duty yet. He can't possibly be at his office before eleven."

The prince mused: "Only adventurers are free. We others plod along our weary way. At the best we allow ourselves to be shot by one of them."

Towards evening, Diana awoke in the dark and evil-smelling cabin. She had slept long, dreamlessly, soundly. Mary, who was none too eager to trust these Arabs, had sat by her side, keeping watch. It was the voices of men singing at their work on the deck overhead that had at last roused Diana. She lay quietly for a while, motionless, silent, her eyes staring. Mary, who knew her mistress's dislike for being spoken to on waking, held her peace.

"Are we already at sea?"

"A long while ago."

"Will it soon be day?"

"It is going on towards night."

"Night? Have I been asleep since yesterday?"

"No, only since noon today."

"Is the wind in the north?"

"Captain says, north-east."

Diana raised herself on her elbow, and asked in a more vivacious tone:

"The captain? Does he speak Italian?"

"A few words."

"Is he the old man, the handsome old fellow?"

"No, the short one with the grey beard."

"I'm hungry."

"Here's some coffee."

"Aren't there any rusks?"

"Yes, but..."

"Well?"

"We've got to ration ourselves."

"Are you afraid we'll suffer shipwreck?"

"No, but it'll take some time to get to Egypt, and supplies are not abundant."

"Egypt? Did the captain tell you he was going there?"

"I have not asked him. I just thought that..."

"Why?"

"Because the other day you said you wanted to see the Sphinx again."

Diana laughed. She threw her two arms round the old woman's neck:

"You dear, you remember everything."

Suddenly she swung out of the berth, pulled on her top boots, and said:

"No, we're not going to Egypt. We'll put in at Athens."

"That's nice, too; it's warm," said Mary.

Diana leaned against the tall mast looking westward through her glasses. A saffron-coloured mountain thrust up its crest from the level waters, while the sun, concealed behind a cloud, sent out great shafts of yellow light in all directions. She dropped the glasses for a moment and gazed on the scene with the naked eye, then resumed the glasses once more. Calling over her shoulder, she said:

"É la costa bulgarese—quella?"

"No, Signora. Samothrace."

The captain came up, and pointed to various salient points on the mainland, telling her the names of these and of the islands.

"How many days will it take if the north-easter holds?"

"We may do it in four days."

"And if the wind changes?"

"Six. Possibly eight."

"Have we enough food on board?"

"I had barely an hour to get in provisions. There's plenty of olives and bread."

"Where else are we likely to put in?"

"Thasos. Maybe Eubœa also."

"Capable crew?"

"The boy's a new hand. The other three are experienced sailors. No time to pick and choose."

"When was your dhow last caulked?"

"Three weeks ago."

Diana went forward and examined the little sail; she asked the captain if he did not think it might be braced up a trifle more. He nodded, and called the youngster, giving his orders peremptorily in his native tongue, accompanied as it seemed by a torrent of abuse.

As she now sat on a campstool by the mast, the men resumed their singing, a monotonous, syncopated melody, accompanied by the deep moan of the keel cutting through the waters with a note which gave the impression of a pedal bass. In the pauses of the song she heard the click-clack of the cordage against the mast. She looked up to the spot whence the noise came, then her eyes travelled across the water, while she mused:

"That sound again, wet cords clapping against wood? Evening—the weather clearing—promise of fine weather tomorrow."

The men's voices rose once more, filling the air with sonorous sound.

"When could it have been?—Two years ago—Azores—when we were sailing over from Oporto. What a merry party we were. And that handsome young painter who was so indignant because there was only one cabin, always full of people. There must have been five of us in all. What's happened since? Last April, Baveno. I sailed a good deal there, but mostly alone. A nice little craft, though a trifle too light. Today? January is nearly out. The ball in the Piazza di Spagna did not take place until towards the close of the carnival—nearly a year ago."

The Arab song floated over to her, monotonous, now loud, now soft. The damp cordage flapped against the mast. The sonorous pedal note rose from the keel.

"Over the waters I sail; sailing, sailing over the sea. Where are you now Gregor, my friend, the proud young man with the white hair over the temples, where are you? At the bottom of this sea? Up there in the clouds, which cling to the last sunset hues as if they were loath to let another day go by? Or are you in the wind, blowing to me from another world, helping me on my course, that I may the sooner win to safety? Are you angry with me? Had I not come, you would perhaps not have left Olivia so often alone, and she would never have yielded to Andreas's love. If I had not left him he would probably never have come here, would never have called on you, never have gazed into Olivia's languorous eyes. And if I had not bitten Linnartz's hand in that hotel room at St. Petersburg, he might not have been so like a sleuth-hound on your trail. Entrapped! Again and again the net closes round me. And I who am so in love with liberty! Am I ever alone? Can I be sure that that young Arab boy who has just been getting a wigging on my account, does not hate me? He may have liked me at first; and now he may already be laying his plans for my undoing, may be contemplating murder. What remains in the end? Nothing but sorrow and loss."

Mary had gently laid a cloak about Diana's shoulders. Now the young woman slowly drew a locket from the bosom of her blouse; it had been one of Gregor's gifts. A slender silver chain; at the end a round, pale green chrysolite with a motto cut round the margin: Hic et ubique. She turned the gem in her fingers as she read. On the reverse side, engraved on a tiny silver disk, was the date of their first meeting. Very slowly she pressed the spring, and the locket opened.

A strand of grey hair lay within.

CHAPTER TEN

Andreas to Nikolai.

"On board the 'White Star.'

"Quiet days in the archipelago, but I cannot linger in this pleasant warmth. My whole being has to adapt itself to equatorial conditions, if you can grasp the meaning of such a daft kind of expression.

"For be it known to you, my friend, I am off to Zanzibar, not the isle of dreams peopled with cloves and palm trees, but to our consulate as attaché, where I shall have to apply myself to practical work. Is it really that the post 'happened to fall vacant' so that I, doctor of laws, could so conveniently slip into it? Or was it not, rather, that they wanted to get rid as quickly as possible of the man who had murdered the ambassador of a foreign power? I gather that I, whose poems no one in the home country has ever taken the slightest notice of, have suddenly become celebrated, and that people are interested enough in me to put themselves about in order to save me from detention in a fortress. The truth is that I am impatient to take up my job, that I am in love with my work, although the cause of my going and the place I am going to smack a little too much of the romantic.

"Meanwhile I am doing my best to keep a new work that has gripped me lately from intruding itself upon my conscious life. But it won't stay in the background all the time. It is taking shape in the form of a kind of rhapsodic trilogy, vaguely resembling certain things of Hector Berlioz's. I could give you an idea of it if you were here....

"It is horrible that my poems should have appeared just before the catastrophe; they have made a sensation and already run into several editions. Olivia has gone to the ancestral castle in Dalmatia; there was a picture of it in all the papers. Diana has disappeared without leaving a trace, spirited away from us all, and the cloak of mystery has once more fallen upon her strong young shoulders.

"The world which had always seemed to me a complicated but logical phenomenon, has become simpler, more understandable—because it is unlogical. Anyway, so far as I am concerned I cannot grasp how it happened that I should have slain that fine, able, and talented man, made Olivia a widow and Clemens an orphan, I who had no conception of bringing about all these disasters at the time I wooed and won....

"Othello has become very quiet these days. It is as if he knew all. I am a little anxious as to how he will stand the tropics. He will have to be my only muse now; no more women; no more poetry writing; only work.

"ANDREAS."

Linnartz to the Foreign Secretary.

"Sir,

"I beg to enclose a formal report on recent events. You will gather from its perusal that the catastrophe came as the logical consequence of the advent of that adventuress whose shameless flight has made it impossible for us, by delivering her over unconditionally to the local authorities, to counteract Sir Henry's and Le Chat's calumnious insinuations at the ministry here.

"Indeed, the Minister for Foreign Affairs is more incensed than ever against us because he firmly believes that we were instrumental in effecting her escape. You will see, Sir, from the report, that I did everything in my power to prevent her departure. Who is responsible for assisting this female spy to escape, neither I nor the local authorities have as yet been able to discover. The day it fell to my happy lot temporarily to take over control of affairs at the embassy, the most exemplary good order reigned in the house in spite of the very natural excitement caused by recent events. The gentlemen of the embassy were all at their posts, energetically dealing with the more pressing business, and making preparations, etc. I have treated as idle gossip the rumour that His Highness Prince Eduard ... went to see the spy at her villa early that morning; but at the same time I held it to be my duty to mention the rumour in my enclosed report.

"Putting things together, I would like to repeat, what you, Sir, will gather for yourself from my report, that Count von Münsterberg was the victim of a spy who used the so-called poet as her stalking-horse to get into the confidence of the countess (the strange behaviour of the Great Dane betrayed her machinations); that this same spy used her seductions to keep the count away from home, thereby isolating the countess and precipitating the catastrophe; and all this with a view to getting rid of the count and replacing him by a protégé of the newspaper magnate and financier Herr Scherer, whose interests make him wish to see Baron von Winterthur take over the ambassadorial post.

"Believe me, Sir, to be

"Your obedient servant,
"LINNARTZ."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Lloyd steamer made its way into the harbour of Piræus twelve hours overdue. Scherer, who had left Berlin on the twenty-third, had thought to arrive in Athens on the last day of February. Now, as he put his foot on land this morning of March 1st, he asked himself whether the omen was a favourable one or otherwise. He had unwillingly to admit that he was superstitious, and would have done much to rid himself of this "sign of weakness," as he named it. In this he was successful for the most part, but the superstitious mood always reappeared when he had something important on hand.

And this day seemed to him an important one. Scherer's serious and thoroughgoing methods of negotiation, his ways of thinking and of feeling, had now depended upon the reports of this woman for something like nine months, a woman he had had under personal observation for no more than a couple of weeks and with whom he had talked intimately for one evening only. Her quick perceptions and her practical good sense had amazed him at the outset, and it was not until he had received proof of her capacity that the fact of her beauty began to penetrate his mind and senses. Just as his intellect built up the separate elements of the world of things, gradually, into a synthetic whole, so had he pieced together, bit by bit, the atoms which went into the composition of this strange young woman. On the evening when they had dined together, he had for the first time got a more or less coherent picture, but even then the splendid unity of form and content baffled him.

How could all this be encompassed within the framework of one woman, he had asked himself. The unusual tension of his nerves had informed him that it was, indeed, the woman in her which stirred him. When he sent her to see after his interests in the Near East, he hardly realized how much he had been influenced by the fear lest her presence near him might distract him from the work he had in hand. He wanted to have her at a distance; and yet, when she had gone, he found he missed her sorely.

The purely business nature of their correspondence (for never a word of personal news slipped into their letters from either side) removed her to an objective distance. But when rumour coupled her name with the count's, when gossip became rife in political circles, a feeling of envy began to stir in Scherer's heart. For just as Scherer was many other things besides being a clever thinker, and Count Münsterberg many things besides being a Don Juan, yet this fundamental contrast between the two men was bound in the end to lead to friction. They realized the possibility themselves. There was, indeed, a conflict in Scherer's mind. The more his own representative, by her intimacy with the representative of the country, was able to turn this friendship to Scherer's account, the more uneasy did he become; and yet the count's passion was welcome as the confirmation of Scherer's personal impression of the young woman.

The news of the tragedy had first reached the circles in which he moved with Linnartz's gloss on it, a gloss not only expressing the baron's personal pique, but likewise subservient to the design of advancing the writer in his career. To most people, therefore, the fatal shot was the symbol of time's revenges against a man of adventurous temperament; and no one thought that the countess's honour might be tarnished by such an interpretation, for every one considered her blameless. Meanwhile, those in the know had learned the true motives that lay at the back of the affair. A week after the first tidings had come to hand, the second version was all the rage, and was the more readily believed because of its piquant implications. Scherer had guessed the truth almost at once, and had pierced to the heart of Baron Linnartz's intrigue. It speedily became obvious that Linnartz was going to fight tooth and nail against Münsterberg's last wishes in the matter of a successor to the ambassadorial post. Scherer set about countering Linnartz's activities. Diana had not interrupted her correspondence with her employer. On the contrary, she furnished him with such a wealth of detail that he was able to confute page after page of Linnartz's first report to the foreign secretary.

Although as business man and as observer Scherer had felt the count's death keenly, yet at the same time this removal of a rival had made him easier in his mind, especially at first. As he paced up and down his library that night, he could not help exclaiming: "She is free!" Next day came her wire: "Compelled to leave. Wassilko." Nothing more. No reason given for her sudden departure, no mention of where she was going. The major had coded the message himself, so that it need not go through the office; and it was unlikely that its contents caused any curiosity at the capital seeing that every one's interests were otherwise engaged. So Scherer waited. He was confident of hearing from her as soon as she was in a position to communicate with him anew. As for seeing Diana in Berlin, he knew this was unlikely, for she would have to avoid the metropolis for a time. When, a week later, he received her first dispatch, it came from Athens. He thereupon made up his mind to leave town and seek her out.

He was fond of Athens from of old. As a young man he had been attracted to that place in preference to Rome, for he had been trained in the humanities and he loved to come into close contact with the relics of the most orderly and magnificent of civilizations. Again, fairly recently, on the return voyage from Ceylon, he had renewed his earlier impressions, and come nearer perhaps to understanding the secrets of Athens' attraction. But he was not the man to yield to a romantic lure, and to crown these early weeks of spring by an intrigue with a lovely woman. He had come here with a definite purpose, for he had resolved to ask Diana to marry him. His chances, he surmised, would be all the better if he tried his luck soon, while she was still stunned by her recent adventure, and when the security of a comfortable home such as he had to offer would make a specially strong appeal.

He sent his luggage on to the hotel where he had ordered a room. Ignoring even the light railway linking harbour to town, he set forth on foot for Diana's quarters. It was now ten o'clock; the morning was bright, and so warm that every one was sporting summer attire. He was informed that the lady had gone out early. Scherer took a seat on the terrace, turning his back on the sea he had been gazing at so many days, and facing the Acropolis. From no other point, it would appear, could so fine a view of the temple be obtained, for the west front lay fully exposed, and from this distance, the slight damages in the pediment were invisible. One therefore got the impression of a well-preserved building. Scherer knew the view of old, and enjoyed it once again in the morning radiance which seemed to filter through the very substance of the structure.

"I wonder how long she'll be?"

What with the dazzling light, and a certain restlessness that had come upon him, he got up and made for the marble hall which ran round the inner side of the terrace. Force of habit led him to the table where journals of all sorts lay; and since he had not seen his own newspaper since leaving Trieste he seized upon that one first. "It must have come by a faster boat," thought he, "by way of Venice most likely." His feelings were mixed as he scanned these familiar columns; for in part he contemplated them with the boredom of an expert weary of the stale tricks of journalism; and in part he was animated by a wish to detect some flaw which would after all prove his presence at the head of things to be indispensable.

He sat leaning back, his legs crossed. One saw light-grey trousers, a huge newspaper hiding most of the reader's body, and a face in profile to the entrance. It was thus Diana glimpsed him on her return. A whole minute she stood looking at him, unnoticed, motionless, after her first gesture of surprise. "Scherer!" At that instant she became acutely aware that she was a woman.

Scherer put down his paper, and saw Diana, who stood smiling at him from the doorway. He rose and went calmly up to her, while she moved towards him, her gait timed to a nicety so that it was a trifle slower than his.

"My word, she is beautiful," thought the man.

Diana, whom he had always before seen dressed in light colours, now stood before him clothed entirely in black. Her tightly clinging gown was almost too narrow in the skirt to be fashionable, and her wide-brimmed hat was not such as were being worn at the time. A long silver chain hung down to below the waist-line; gauntlet gloves of grey doeskin were pulled well up the forearm. A huge bunch of Greek violets was pinned into her bodice at the breast. Her face was tanned as he had always seen it; but she looked slimmer, and prouder of mien, than his memory of her had led him to expect. Though her lips were parted in a smile, they seemed to him more reticent than ever, and sad. She stretched out a hand in welcome:

"Good-morning. So you've come all the way to Phaleron to read your own paper! When did you arrive? How did you get here? You look the picture of health!"

Her voice rang out clear and steady. His voice, too, sounded like true metal as he answered:

"You are looking well, likewise; and since, as each new day dawns, Dame Rumour has it that tomorrow you will die, I thought I'd look you up so as to give her and all of them the lie." They laughed.

"Are you going to stay down here?" asked she.

"No, in the town."

"Got some decent rooms?"

"I hope so. I've not seen them yet, only just landed, came here straight from the boat."

"It's a shame to have kept you waiting! I usually go up to the hill of the gods in the morning."

Scherer thought: "Her questions are apt. Now she knows that I have come on her account, her use of the word 'waiting' makes the whole thing clear."

Diana thought: "So soon? He lets me know at once that he has come here only to see me. Probably he has a definite scheme in mind."

She proposed a walk along the sea-front, and while questioning him about everything and anything in which they were mutually interested (though naturally avoiding a reference to the duel and its consequences), her eyes travelled over the coastline, the hills, and the islands and, lest this semi-political conversation should dissipate itself in chatter about the landscape, she drew his attention to the works then in progress for the fortification of the shore, and to the new hangar for the seaplanes. Scherer showed a lively interest, and yet he was at pains to bring the talk back to personal topics. After a while he said with a smile:

"May I express a wish that even here, though you are on furlough, you will continue your work? ..."

She laughed, but more out of courtesy than because she was amused.

"There's twelve sounding. Shall we go in to lunch?"

As Scherer awaited her in the hall his mood underwent a change. Diana had stirred him to the depths. She seemed so alone; as she walked along by the blue sea, a forlorn little figure in black, mourning for the beloved, the scent of those wonderful violets around her, her form outlined through the folds of her tightly fitting dress, she had, all unawares, awakened the man in Scherer. He, who had left his artificially warmed office in the capital where the lords of winter still held sway, had paced the deck of a little steamship for days, his heart beating in anticipation, had hoped to find her shaken by her recent experiences. He had, besides, for many years voluntarily renounced all intimate friendship with women. Diana had always appealed to him; now it was the feminine in her that made a special impression; indeed, at this moment she affected him more than any woman had ever done before. So greatly were his senses stirred that he, usually so self-controlled, could not keep his thoughts off her, but needs must allow his errant fancy to follow her to her room and picture her as she slipped off her morning dress and put on an afternoon gown. He even went so far as to regret his tactfulness in taking rooms elsewhere, and wished he had put up at her hotel. But when she came back she was in the same black dress, and said as they passed into the dining-room together:

"I like wearing black just now, and anyway nobody knows me here...."

As luncheon was nearing an end, Scherer said:

"It is nine months since for the first and only time we sat at table together."

"So long, already?"

"To a day. It was on the first of June."

"How is your beautiful house?"

"My house is empty."

Her hand went to her bosom with a gesture as of defence. Then, to give herself countenance, she took the flowers from her bodice and asked the waiter for a glass of water into which she put the drooping violets.

"They are rather tired, poor things. But it's amazing how quickly they revive. I buy a big bunch every morning. My room is full of them. In no land I have ever visited have I come across such huge violets. Nor have I ever experienced such a spring. Yes, they come from Attica. So different from the small, modest violets of the north. Huge blossoms which seem to open melancholy eyes as if to express the language of passion."

She spoke very quietly, almost to herself; but her last words seemed to him a sign, or, at least, they seemed to give him permission to broach the subject of his thoughts.

"Are you vexed that I should have looked you up?"

"No, no; I am grateful to you for coming. I've been alone for three weeks with only Mary to talk to. She's my old servant, who came away with me in the little sailing boat."

"Did you have favourable winds?" This was the first he had heard of the method of her escape.

"One day it was a bit slack, but otherwise brisk, mainly from the north-east."

"It was good of you to think of wiring."

"I did not dare to be more explicit. The prince made himself responsible. Oh, no, it was the major who saw after it. And it was he who managed to smuggle me out of the port."

Scherer was glad that the major's name had come up. He seized his opportunity to say:

"... The major loves you."

Diana looked up quickly.

"Did he tell you that?"

"Very nearly."

Diana thought: "Felix is absolutely incorrigible. What can I do to distract Scherer's mind?"

"Do you know that you've just come in time for the carnival?" she said aloud. "The whole town is full of music and laughter. Nearly a week it lasts. Shall we go and have a look at it?"

They agreed to meet later at his hotel. He bade her good-bye for the time, and went to his rooms. Here he changed, read his correspondence, answered what was necessary. Then he stepped out on the balcony which looked on to the gardens adjoining the royal palace, and on to the big square. Every minute the number of masqueraders increased; they must form at least half of all those who are now promenading the streets, he thought. The bright colours swamped the sober greys and blacks of everyday fashion. As soon as he caught sight of Diana driving up, he went downstairs to meet her, and soon they were lost in the crowd of merry-makers.

In order not to be too conspicuous, she had put on a grey dress, and a violet-coloured veil almost covered her hat. As they reached the corner by his hotel, they stopped, and for a moment they were completely surrounded. Women and boys, addressing them in a medley of languages, were pressing their wares upon them: great branches of apple blossom, round and resplendent like buxom women; delicate pink almond sprays, willowy and tall; huge bundles of blue hyacinths; cascades of yellow tulips; and, conspicuous among them all, the huge bunches of violets whose dreamlike flowers seemed to resent the restricting string which bound them together.

"These people know me," said Diana, laughing. "I have to trundle the whole cart load off to Phaleron most days. Today..."

Suddenly, she had an idea. She separated one lad from his comrades, gave him a note, and told him to take the whole contents of his handcart to the hotel and ask the porter to put them in Herr Scherer's room. Scherer gathered from her gestures what she had in mind, and, turning to another vender, bought a bunch of violets for her to wear. He gave it to her, saying:

"So little, for so much."

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. It was the first time she had known him to be deeply moved. "He is indeed poor, this man; for all his millions could not buy that barrow of flowers I (who tomorrow may be penniless) have just sent to his room!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

They spent the next few days wandering about on foot, driving to this place and that, taking a boat and sailing upon the waters of the Ægean Sea. Hitherto they had known each other only from afar; now they studied one another close at hand. How contrasted were their temperaments! Their lives had run along such different paths of experience, and yet their intellectual and instinctive sympathies bridged the gulf that might otherwise have yawned between them. Scherer had escaped from the northern winter and from his professional duties. Now the companionship of this young woman was to confirm his first impression of her. She interested him, she was prolific of ideas, she was productive in her work; and yet it seemed to him that the woman in her was again slipping through his fingers, and that all he had beside him was a trusty friend. Diana, whose doubts of him had been laid to rest as soon as he had resumed his ordinary poise, was eager to discover all she could of this man whose brain was a match for hers, and whose knowledge of the world was far superior.

When, four days later, they met by appointment in the museum to look at the Mycenean relics, he seemed pleasurably excited. Drawing a telegram from his pocket, he handed it to Diana, saying:

"Something to cheer you up!"

She read: "Winterthur to succeed Münsterberg. Linnartz to go. Foreign secretary probably retiring."

"A voice from the tomb," murmured Diana, as she gave the slip of paper back to him. "Maybe this is the modern equivalent of the old-fashioned ghost, the way to make your influence felt after death! These people of an age long past took gold with them into the grave, and we of a later generation stand looking at them as they lie in their glass cases. This cup with the running lions carved upon it speaks to us of the spirit of Agamemnon. And look at this one, and this, are they not perfect?"

They examined the treasures in the glass cases for a while; a dagger, a pot, a ring. Then, quite suddenly, Diana exclaimed:

"Linnartz to go!? They should have strung him up to the first lamp-post that came handy!"

Scherer smiled as he answered, mimicking Linnartz's voice and manner:

"Throughout he assumed an absolutely unprejudiced attitude, and deserves a good mark against his name in the State archives."

Diana resumed her study of the contents of the glass cases in silence. After a while they passed out of that room and into the one where the coffins are preserved. She had become very quiet, as if she were no longer aware of Scherer's presence. Then she noticed that his attention was concentrated upon one tomb in particular. He stood contemplating it for many minutes. A naked youth, life size, was depicted on it, in very low relief. Leaping towards him was a greyhound. Beneath, was carved the Greek word: Χαϊρε!—Scherer knew what was in Diana's thoughts.

That evening as they were dining at his hotel, the tumult from the streets came to them through the open windows. Carnival frolics were in full swing. The sound of flutes, rattles, mandolins, and drums, mixed with the patter of many feet, filled the wide square. There were calls and screams, snatches of music and laughter. Like fireflies on a summer evening in the north, little Japanese lanterns flickered and fluttered by in the gloaming. But away there beyond the noise and the bustle, rose the flat-topped hill crowned with the silent, stately pile of the Acropolis, still glowing faintly in the light of the western sky. The scent of the orange blossom was wafted to them from the royal gardens, to mingle with all the other springtime perfumes within the room and without.

Scherer's fancy endowed his companion with magic arts, and he felt as if bewitched with a circle of her making. She had a long Venetian shawl wrapped round her shoulders, a garment she dearly loved. The lamp shone softly down upon her bare head, and Scherer was struck with the difference in her looks tonight from what he remembered of her as she had sat that evening nine months ago on the terrace of his home in her pale lilac silk frock. He was amazed at her faculty for changing her appearance, of becoming, as it were, a different woman, adapted to different moods and circumstances. The barriers he had so carefully set up around him were being broken down one by one as his interest and curiosity were aroused. A tone of subdued excitement was in his voice as he spoke.

"On the way here, I kept on thinking that in this land at least you should adopt the Greek form of your name, and call yourself Artemis. Yet now it seems to me that Cassandra would be a more fitting appellation, and that I should be awaiting your oracle."

"Just listen to the way that merry throng is responding to your rhetoric," laughed Diana. "Little drum-taps such as the god will call for when he is in a good humour, and before he has lost his head. Lanterns swaying joyously over the heads of the merrymakers, who are laughing and singing as if Death were dead and everlasting life were the key to happiness!"

"Do you want to die?" asked Scherer, calmly.

She raised her arms slightly, so that the black folds of the shawl fell apart, disclosing the delicate tint of her bare neck.

"Why do you ask?" she said reservedly but without any coldness in her voice. "Had I wished to do so, should I not already have gone from this life, now, when a part of my very self has slipped from my hands and vanished into the night of darkness? Yes, I loved Count Münsterberg, and the baron's lies are in essence truths far greater than he can have any idea of, for it was on my account that Gregor died. I felt all along that the affair must come to a violent end. Only I did not know who the victim would be. In any case our friendship would have had to cease as soon as the poet or the countess decided to go away. It might very well have turned out that I was to be the victim. But fate struck him...."

She sighed, caught in the toils of pain renewed, her eyes lowered on to the table. Then she turned towards the square and looked at the medley of masqueraders below. Her voice was steady when she resumed:

"And we three go on living, all three of us, who mourn his death. I, who was the greatest loser, do I not sit here at dinner with you, feel the scent of flowers around me, wear a nosegay of violets at my breast, listen to the joyous calls of the Athenian youth, just as if nothing unusual had happened? We are enmeshed in the web of life; don't you feel it too? And since I am thus enmeshed I do not choose to die before I have experienced all there is to experience. To taste of everything just once—in order to be able to despise everything."

She flung the last words across the table to him, a note of challenge in her voice. But he had long since known that she despised possessions and wealth. Nevertheless he picked up the gauntlet she had thus thrown down, for he was resolved to make his request, now, fearlessly and without ambiguity. Yet when the moment came to put the question in cold blood, his heart failed him; his intellect took command, and all he was able to say was:

"So much striving after harmony and yet so great disquietude! Need one really experience everything in actual reality? You, who are a student of Plato, is it possible that you should not have recognized what I fully recognized when I decided to confine my activities in life to the narrow circle of my present occupations—narrow, for all the outer world may think to the contrary? You who have gained in a few years a knowledge of the world which others take many decades to acquire, can afford to break away from your present way of living. And I urge you: give it up now. Concentrate your activities, instead of scattering them to the four winds. Try to possess yourself of yourself. Make your life secure and safe; do this hand in hand with me, as mistress of my house, which you once were kind enough to praise. I came to Athens for no other purpose than to ask you to be my wife."

With a sudden inspiration, he took up the orange he had peeled, divided it in half, and handed one portion over the table to Diana. Moved by his impassioned speech, she reached towards the fruit, and as she did so she met his eyes fixed on her with an expression of infinite longing, most unusual in a man accustomed to command.

"I accept the half," she said, unflinchingly, as she kept her eyes on his, "for I feel that you are my friend.—You said well. Harmony. It might be thought a rather venturesome word to utter in this place and at this time. Yet over there, on the hill of the gods, which the night has now swallowed up so that I can no longer see it as background to your silhouette; over there, harmony watches over the present, harmony in its everlasting embodiment. But I am not a column, or a structure of stone, or, even, a tree. You have created for yourself a world of security wherein you may dwell in peace and harmony; I love life precisely because of its insecurity, and, because of this love of mine, I have no fear of death. You with your clear vision, have you not noticed that I have no roots? Did I not hear you say—I am so fond of your voice, it rings true—did I not hear you say my name that evening on the terrace of your home as if you understood all its implications? And again, when you were coming down here to see me, you thought of me as Artemis. I am for the chase, for a lifelong chase through the world. Even if I do strive after harmony, I must have freedom all around me. Would you ever grant freedom to your wife? Every freedom, even to the ultimate, the freest of freedoms?—Have I lost you now by my refusal? Please, please, do not deprive me of your confidence, you who came to recognize what I was, and what my worth. Please—shake hands...."

He set the half of the orange on the table and took her outstretched hand. He held it for a moment, but did not kiss it.

Towards midnight she prepared to go back to her hotel. He begged to be allowed to drive to Phaleron with her. The carriage could only move along at a foot's pace, so densely packed were the streets with revellers. Even now, the air was full of confetti, and flowers long since withered were thrown aloft with jubilant cries. As they neared the outskirts of the town, the crowd gradually thinned, and the going was better. The sweet air was blowing from the sea. They had both lapsed into a mood of quiet contemplation, and it was with a faraway smile that Scherer shook some confetti out of her shawl. He, as a northerner unused to southern exuberance, had been more bewildered by the noise and commotion than she, and the heavy southern wine flowed sluggishly through his veins. His mind was clouded, and in vain did he try to fill the great black void which her answer had dug in his very heart. The little act of flicking the confetti from the folds of her wrap was no more than a pretext; he wanted to be nearer to her, and yet was fearful lest by some rash move he might spoil his chances for ever.

With the knowledge of an experienced woman, Diana knew the struggle that was going on within him, and was cogitating as to the best way to meet him. Since Gregor's death her senses were benumbed. Never in her life had she been so free from all sensual desire, especially in the springtime of the year. Scherer took her hand in his, slowly unbuttoned her glove, and suddenly bowed his dark head over the back of the hand he held, covering it with kisses.

"I am lonely," he said disjointedly. "Won't you—join me—?"

Looking down at him, she murmured:

"You want a faithful and devoted wife, and children in your home. I need freedom."

His passionate desire grew as the conviction was forced upon him that he pleaded in vain. Instinct took possession, while intellect went to sleep in the warm and fragrant night. He seized her hand, her arm, and said:

"Diana! I would have given my life..."

She felt him pressing against her shoulder, and realized how shaken he was, how his whole spirit bent beneath the emotional stresses of this hour. Even more, she knew that now he was asking her to accept no more than what a hundred other women would have accepted on the terms, and she recalled the honourable proposals with which he had at first pressed his suit, in spite of the facts he knew about her previous life. Again she felt, as in days gone by, that there inevitably comes a moment when the platonic affection between man and woman breaks down before the onslaught of human instincts.

They had passed the sea-front, had driven along the quay, and were now coming to the lighted streets again, to houses, and at any minute might be crossing the path of other vehicles. She made him sit up and begged him to compose himself. As they drew near her hotel, she took him kindly by the hand.

"Try to—pull yourself together—go back and have a good sleep...."

They drew up. He sprang out and helped her to alight, hardly touching her in the process. Then he asked in as matter-of-fact tones as he could muster:

"And tomorrow?"

She stood pensive for a second, then said gaily:

"Tomorrow? Weren't we going to Salamis tomorrow?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Evening was drawing on. On the topmost step of the Parthenon, her left elbow resting on her knee and her chin in the cup of her hand, sat Diana in her long black draperies, motionless as a statue, her gaze towards the sea. Only a veil streaming out from behind the pillar gave evidence that between the rigid column and the woman seated there, the wind, a living creature, was at work.

Scherer's tall figure was seen mounting the white steps towards the Propylæum. He liked to visit the great antiques, and to ignore the little ones which the moderns have interspersed here and there as if to give relief. His expression was typical of a man thoroughly enjoying his leisure; he looked lively and his face was lit up by a smile of perfect contentment. Muscular, perhaps a trifle too broad in the shoulders in spite of his height, he might have been taken for an Englishman; and yet his thoughtful cast of countenance showed him to be in reality a member of the German confraternity. He was, indeed, more akin to the massive, square-cut structure of the Propylæum, than to the temple itself, and during his sojourn in Athens had made frequent pilgrimages to study the portal. When he reached the platform and turned his steps westward, he became aware of Diana's dark shape away there in the corner.

"Is solitude after all the fundamental need of this woman?" he wondered as he advanced towards her. "Or is it just that she is seeking refuge from me? She behaves differently to others, I feel it in my bones; does not succumb to these long meditative pauses, which at times develop into actual flight. I wonder whether, having refused my offer of a secure life, she will one day give herself to me freely.... She will not grow old; suddenly, she'll die; but she'll leave no heirs behind, leave no sign of her passage...."

She had caught sight of him now, and they had nodded recognition without uttering a word. Diana looked up at him, thinking:

"Modern clothes usually look so ridiculous up here among these noble columns; but he looks well, he's so elastic in his gait, and how earnest is his expression. He's as healthy an animal as I, and he thinks he acts up to the same laws—and yet in reality how different are our outlooks! He is devoted to me—but he would fight me tooth and nail. His love stirs me, and I could give him all, everything—except my personal freedom. That I must safeguard...."

His clear voice broke in on her musings.

"I'm late. Business. One can't get away from it completely."

"The sun is setting over Corinth—it must be past six o'clock."

"... Ah, you've been reading them," he said, taking his place beside her on the step and picking up a little book she had let fall.

"Yes, but I should have done better to refrain. Andreas's poems, the ones he wrote to me, are more delightful to read in his own delicate script than here in cold print, on hand-made paper...."

Scherer turned over the pages as one who knew the book well, seeking for a special poem of his choice. Then in his clear, metallic voice, which he subdued to the spirit of the verses and the place where he was sitting, he read the poem he loved. As his lips shaped the words, Diana was transported back to the isle where they had first been written; she forgot his proximity for a while, but as with the concluding words he let the book sink, and she was brought back to the present, she marvelled that he had been able to read so unfalteringly—for did they not apply to his case with special poignancy? Now he was saying:

"And—what about those he wrote to Countess Olivia?"

But her thoughts were elsewhere as she answered:

"At first I was troubled by such passion. I asked myself where it would find a suitable outlet. I wondered what dreams would come to play havoc with this young soul. Then he found Olivia." She paused a moment, and Scherer knew she was thinking of many things in her life with Andreas, things that were for her alone. "And then," again she paused. When she resumed, her voice trembled slightly. "Then I asked myself whether these verses had not been paid too dear, whether they were beautiful enough to warrant such an expenditure, whether the gods had been right to sacrifice Gregor the man of the world to Andreas the poet?"

"Well," said Scherer reassuringly, "maybe they would have been wrong if Münsterberg's work had gone down with him, if his opponent Muthesius had replaced him instead of Winterthur...."

"Yes, Winterthur has come," she affirmed, looking at her companion with steady fearlessness. "And was not that his achievement, the last work of a dying man? It seems almost as if he had bequeathed his convictions to his follower, a spiritual heritage, so that his nation might be safeguarded from war; or, if war comes nevertheless, that his people shall find a treaty awaiting them in an emergency where they expected to find a foe."

Scherer smiled.

"Is the world spirit to be rehabilitated? Is Hegel to oust Plato in order that a northern friend may be pleased?"

His tone was comradely, as it had been ever since the night of the carnival. He had deliberately assumed it as armour against his own too passionate feelings. Even today she let him have his little joke, for she well knew he merely wished for a confirmation of his own statement. She could not help smiling in her turn when she reflected that at another time and in another mood she would have been swayed by passion to give a far different judgment from the one she had spoken with such wise audacity.

She, therefore, left his question unanswered, saying brightly:

"And what are the northern friend's plans?"

"He must soon be off."

"When?" she asked with a sigh.

"At the end of the week."

She smiled.

"And today is Friday—I know, because Mary told me this morning."

As if to anchor herself to this land, she grasped the lip of the marble step. He noticed her movement, noticed how eagerly she leaned forward drinking in the landscape and the sea. After a while he said:

"You'll stay on here, I suppose. Of course. Only I'm afraid that in summer the heat may..."

His mien was solicitous; but she laughed.

"I'm in your service, and four months' leave is more than even an operatic tenor would expect! Let me have—shall we say four, or five, weeks more. Then I'll come back to the office again. On the first of May, when I come knocking at your door, I should be grateful to find you at home...."

END OF VOLUME ONE

BOOK FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

In the opera of Manon, the curtain had just been lowered for the second time. Prince Eduard stood in the entry to his box looking quietly down on the disturbed ant-heap below. Yet he hardly saw the people, for his heart was beating a wild response to the drama he had been witnessing; indeed the spirit of adventure was singing within him, in strains wilder by far than those he had just been hearing; a phantasmagoria of freedom and destiny passed to and fro before his mind as it had so often done before; a high tide of emotion, in conspicuous contrast to the habitual state of his feelings, now flooded his being. Ever since boyhood, music had been able to transport him to a brighter world; and when adventure beckoned him, even his hypercritical senses were laid to rest, so that he became nothing more than an eager and simple-hearted auditor. A girl's voice, grave beyond her years, broke in on his meditations:

"But why does Manon give up the poet whom she loves, and why does she let him be arrested by the officer?"

She put the question to her cousin with disingenuous emphasis, for she fancied that, since he invariably gave foolish answers, he must know a very great deal and say much less than he knew.

Eduard, thus suddenly dragged from the world of his fancy into that of his family, was furious at the interruption. The two spheres were such absolutely separate entities that he went from one into the other as through a trap-door. A certain amount of commotion invariably followed. He looked down at the eager face of his cousin, rose slightly on his toes, and said harshly:

"Officer versus poet, cara Matilda? Just imagine the composer of this tragi-comedy as your lover. Then along comes Herbert, in full-dress uniform, death's head on shako, stupendous boots, and all the rest of it—for whom would your heart flutter, eh?"

"Must it be so?" he thought, as he swept his opera glasses round the house. Then he laid them aside. Strange idea, to give a whole evening, once every week, to this naïve cousin of his.... Why did he do it? ... One ought to strike out more for oneself....

Berlin seemed crabbed and confined after his experience among intriguing diplomats in foreign parts. At least they did come within hailing distance of adventure.... But here? ... How constantly his thoughts were travelling to that Balkan world tonight! ... What things were possible down there; what a part women could play in affairs.... Old-time customs, old-time outlooks, had persisted, amid modern refinements and daring ventures; a strange medley of west and east struggling for supremacy in that disintegrated world....

"Do you think she goes to live with her officer?" The voice bored itself into his ears.

"Après minuit," he growled.

She turned away from him in a huff.

Again he was immersed in the tangle of his thoughts. "That will teach her not to ask such silly questions. She's blushed right down her neck and farther, to her utterly uninteresting body beneath her clothes. She's actually gasping for breath! And that's what our race is bred from.... Young cow! ... Ah, me, how was it such an anarchical creature as myself found its way into the lying-in chamber of a princely house?..."

His companion had discovered some friends; she was nodding to them, and insisted that he should bow to them likewise. Now she was happy.

"To find reflections of oneself, always oneself ... that's the idea," he thought, pursing up his lips and whistling his scorn inaudibly down the wind. But Manon—such women, who dance before the chariot of liberty like that groom of old who used to run clearing the way in front of Egyptian equipages.... Always ready to bestow themselves, lavishing their gifts, thoughtless of themselves, unsteady, undisciplined, carried away—redskins of the world of the emotions.... Shafts of freedom shot from sparkling eyes ... where else can one find them except on the stage? ... There was one woman ... yes, that morning.... Then the brown sail of her boat disappeared in the waters near that southern capital ... it seemed to get redder....

An insistent noise startled him from his reverie. It was the call-bell summoning the people back to their seats. Eduard stepped up behind the chair in which his cousin was sitting. He leaned very lightly on the back of it with one hand while with the other he once more swept the auditorium with his glasses before retreating to his corner to listen.

Suddenly he gripped the glasses firmer, his lips twitched; he was like a man who quite unexpectedly finds his dream coming true. He saw some one he knew leaning over the railing of her box. She could only just have come in, for her left foot was still upon the last of the shallow steps leading down to the front of the box. A draught of cold air must be coming through the door at her back, for she pulled her silk wrap closer around her. Her dauntless and radiant profile made her look for all the world like that carving of Nike which had served as a figure-head so many hundred years ago. Even the short hair gave an impression of wind and movement, for the curls trembled above the sun-tanned neck like wavelets breaking against a barque. She wore no gloves, and supported herself on the tips of her fingers as she looked down at the crowd below. At this moment she seemed to be the very embodiment of freedom and youth.

Yes, it was she, it was Diana, appearing thus before him in response to the memories which Manon's voice and destiny had revived. He stood, gazing his fill. He had found what he had not sought but had yearned for, and his feeling gradually passed from surprise to conviction as his dream took on flesh and blood before his very eyes. His first impulse was to go and join her; he raged in his heart at the social convention which decreed that he should stay where he was, at his cousin's side.

Then the lights went out, the magic wand of the conductor was raised, a fresh act began, and Eduard knew that for half an hour he would have to peer through the opalescent twilight trying to discern her box, wondering why she was alone, his brain in a turmoil, his ears assailed by Manon's voice and passion.

He had known for some weeks now that she was in town, and he might very well have looked her up. Yet he had hesitated even to find out where she was living, had contented himself with the hope of meeting her some day by chance in the street, in a concert hall, at the play. Now Manon, behind the footlights, was laughing and loving, betraying her friend in all innocence, weeping over her fault; and it seemed to the young man that he, the third son of a reigning prince, was being drawn into a magic circle wherein he himself, the adventuress on the stage, and the woman over there in the box, were interconnected by imponderable bonds....

In imagination he transferred the singer to the box and Diana to the stage; instantly he felt the freedom and tempo, the love, passion, and youth of Manon to be redoubled; it seemed to him that the orchestra lagged behind the accelerated impetus of the singer.... The fanciful vision disappeared, to be replaced by memories.... Summer months enlivened with her laughter.... A morning when she had wept the death of a friend.... Again he saw those same bronzed features, blooming and fresh.... What strangers they were to one another in spite of the many months of proximity ... not one moment of intimacy during the whole time.... But he had thought of her a great deal, and compared her, always compared her with other people and other things....

The act was nearing its end. He crept noiselessly out of his box so as not to make his cousin aware of his desertion, and when the lights went up and the applause was at its height, he was already by Diana's side.

She did not notice him for a second or two, and his delicacy forbade his forcing himself upon her attention. Indeed, he was reluctant to disturb the picture before him. Unheeding the commotion around her, she sat leaning back in her chair, her elbow resting on the upholstered ledge, her hand curved over ear and temple, her neck, shoulders, and arm silhouetted against a background of lights. She did not seem to belong to this time and to this modern opera house, but must surely be some nymph of ancient days woefully astray!

The moment of ecstatic delight was over. She awoke from her trance, turned round, and became aware of the prince's eyes upon her. Was he intentionally assuming the same pose as on that morning when they had bade farewell to one another? It seemed but yesterday. A shade arose behind him, a shade belonging to the past, belonging to an episode she had lived under his very eyes. With an effort, she dismissed these ghosts of yesteryear, rose to greet him, and stretched her long, virile hand towards him as he stood on the upper step at the back of the box.

"Good evening, Your Highness," she said with formal simplicity.

The words fell on his ears like faraway strains of a violin; they seemed the embodiment of a friendly reserve, of a chaste salutation, as if he and she had certain rights and preferences in common. He had taken her hand and was looking down at it as it lay in his; following up the line of blue veins, his mind became a blank. He forgot to kiss her hand as was the custom, and let it drop, while he stammered somewhat incoherently:

"Thanks, thanks...."

Diana was puzzled. What had become of his habitual savoir-faire? She had expected a witty phrase, a sparkling repartee. What on earth was he thanking her for? She must rise to the occasion and help him out of his embarrassment. Looking up at him with merry, challenging eyes, she said softly:

"How would it be if you ventured the plunge? You are rather high-perched up there!"

He smiled gratefully as he came down the shallow steps towards her.

"Not being successful in running you to earth anywhere else, I thought I might draw the Manon covert!"

"How daintily you dish up your lies! You see, Scherer has told me how long you've been in town."

"Still, for the moment it has the deliciously bitter-sweet flavour of quince ice—or have I just invented the delicacy?"

"For Manon, Prince," she rejoined, taking her seat.

"The wish is there, but I have no hopes! Our worthy forefathers were wont to go behind the scenes when their hearts were captured by the fair. Elopement followed...."

"Mm," commented Diana, crossing her legs, and sticking her hand behind her between the chair and her back in a very boyish attitude. Her voice took on a cutting tone as of a fine whiplash. "She'd smell of make-up, and would hurl a volley of abuse at the manager's head. The stage is all very well for those who, having no courage in their hearts, are willing to buy their dreams."

"And what about us?" asked Eduard incautiously. The words had hardly passed his lips before he regretted having spoken so heedlessly.

Diana frowned, and drew her shawl round her shoulders. She appeared to be withdrawing, isolating herself. That "us" seemed to her an impertinence. Nevertheless, she would treat him indulgently because he was obviously not himself tonight. So she retorted calmly:

"We? I have no idea how you live."

"Outwardly reasonable; inwardly a crusade," he growled.

"To Atlantis?" she queried mockingly.

"To the Holy Land, Mademoiselle."

Again she was nonplussed. Could this really be the man she had known, the man who had always barricaded the approaches to his heart with a thickset hedge of mockery? She opened her shawl a little at the throat with a conciliatory gesture, and as she caught the look in his eyes she suddenly realized what a terribly lonely man he was. Then the thought flashed through her mind that perhaps her image had been with him ever since the day they had parted, and that maybe all he needed to give him back his customary self-possession was a deliberate reference to the past, a thing she had so far avoided. She made the plunge.

"I saw Countess Olivia recently."

"Is she in Berlin?"

"She has been here."

The mention of Olivia's name opened the sluices of memory for them both. They relived those hours which they had experienced together. It was as if some secret they had shared in common had been recalled, sealing a friendship whose roots lay far back in wellnigh forgotten events and tinting it with faintly erotic hues. Diana's thoughts glanced over the twenty-five years of her life; the prince toyed with notions which were a mixture of desire and irony.

Once more the house was filled with the shrill-voiced bell. Eduard drew himself up as though he were a young officer, clapped his heels smartly together, fixed his monocle into his left eye-socket, and said with an affected twang:

"May I, with three compliments prolonged, as the son of a petty caliph, ask you for your Mutabor, or, rather, your 'phone number, so that I may make an appointment? And when may I have the pleasure...?"

"Always," she answered smartly.

But he felt that such a word falling from her lips was too vague; he wanted her to be more precise.

"Always? Does that mean constantly?"

She laughed.

"Always means over and over again! But just now it means away with you, for it will be dark in a minute and then you'll be a prisoner in my cave, and here comes the magician already, knocking at the door."

Many years of training in the conventional civilities now all at once had their way with the young man, and he remembered his obligations to the lady awaiting him in the box opposite; the clockwork inside him automatically set its pace to the tempo of his eighteenth-century ancestors; and just as Diana, somewhat discomfited by his abrupt change of manner, was expecting him to stay, he growled:

"My cousin is expecting me back; not safe for her to be alone in the dark; some one might make advances from a neighbouring box, you know...."

"Please go, then," she said airily, giving her attention to the stage.

He went without saying another word.

"The trees in the forest sing when they are swept by the wind," thought Diana. "When the prince play-acts he betrays himself, and he is for ever play-acting. Then he is like those little negresses who press their arms tightly over their breasts, for he is conscious of the nakedness of his soul.... Why do we always try to hide the best that is in us? ... Ah me, he should choose a little girl like that cousin of his and lead her home to be his bride; it is such as she should be mistress in the halls of his ancestors. That 'cello is playing as if it were the voice of fate...."

The prince opposite was also dreaming.

"Freedom! And were she no more than the beautiful, gay, wise thing she is, she'd be the very essence of freedom! ... Bronze, as if it were still summer and we were in the south.... She is a lady of such high breeding as might arouse the envy of my own folk who have taken years to attain the miserable culture they possess.... Hold her! Hold her, Eduard!"

CHAPTER Two

It was February 1913.

In a corner of Baroness Mühlwerth's reception room, Scherer and Prince Eduard were exchanging sly digs at the crowd of sycophants assembled there. They were interrupted by a high-pitched voice belonging to a man who wore a galaxy of decorations.

"Always drawing away into corners, you big bugs in the world of finance, eh?"

Sensing that their conversation was critical of the gathering, the foreign secretary, their host, had steered his way through the throng, hoping to break the tête-à-tête, and was shaking hands effusively.

"You financiers! Incorruptible, accepting no political honours or decorations or titles, independent of this world's goods, free to have your own thoughts, a king without the incumbrance of a crown—that's what I call true twentieth-century freedom! What? Or am I to gather from the prince's ironical expression that he is challenging me to say the twenty-first century? Yes, yes," said the minister, raising his voice, for a glance in a wall mirror showed him that a group of left-wing members were standing just behind him, "a new day is dawning over Prussia, and I should indeed count myself a lucky man if I could enlist such brains as associates."

"Your Excellency is well aware," Scherer replied coldly, "that I have never placed too high a value on my business affairs, but, for the present, I am indispensable as a factor in their running smoothly."

"Unpatriotic, my friend; and in the best sense of the word, unsocial!——What do you think?" he asked, turning to the prince.

"If I may be allowed to contradict, I should say, the more unsocial the more independent in his judgment when new ideas are put to the test, those new ideas which one greets with an ironical expression!"

"You talk that way because you are the youngest of several brothers and will never have to worry about governing."

"If I'd had the misfortune to be the first-born I should not have deprived my little country of the benefit of Herr Scherer's advice by insisting that he accept a ministerial post or what not. Financiers and other imaginative spirits must not have their flights impeded by being made prisoners of office."

"Always paradoxical, and, therefore, always productive! But as far as imaginative spirits are concerned, there is one close at hand, I hear the rustling of his wings. Have you met Franklin yet, the seaman, consul, physiognomist, the Austrian poet and philosopher, that man who is talking to my wife?"

"He is laughing," said Scherer under his breath, as he fixed his eyes on the stranger.

"He's grey-haired and tanned," added the prince.

Franklin, at that moment catching sight of Scherer, stared quite openly, and a friendly expression spread down from the black eyes over the haggard cheeks and seemed to penetrate into the little pointed beard as well. He was lean and brown, like all men who spend much of their lives in the open, and looked cleverer than God could possibly have meant any mortal to be. A life of rich experience had set its marks upon his face; but the warm glow of the eyes gave the lie to any suggestion of renunciation, even where battles may have been lost.

"Ah, you are looking at Prince Eduard," said the baroness, who invariably made such false guesses. "Do you know him?"

"Is that the man next his Excellency?" came in a rich baritone from her side.

"Yes, quite near Herr Scherer."

"And who is he, if I may ask?"

"Scherer? Don't you know Scherer? Then a gem is lacking to your collection."

"A humanist?" Franklin asked himself. "Looks like a Holbein—in spite of the horn-rimmed spectacles; they seem to be an actual part of the man—and yet he's certainly a man of action. One can see that in the way he has turned to the tall young man whose mouth has such an ironical twist, and is taking leave of him with a seriousness hardly befitting the place and time...." Thus musing and observing, he quite forgot the baroness who was entertaining him, as she fondly imagined, with her clever prattle; he forgot the company he was in, all these political bigwigs, his own interests and intentions; the only thing he was aware of was this man, this stranger, whose enigmatical and reserved demeanour fascinated him, and absorbed his every faculty, so that he hardly heard his hostess taking leave of him.

Now the host himself stepped up and led him to where Scherer and the prince stood apart, introducing his three guests to one another.

"Ecco," he exclaimed after saying the three names. "An African example to confute the prince's thesis that an original mind is necessarily an unsocial mind. Or would you prefer not to hear anything about those noble things here in the sanctuary of this temple?"

"Here," said Franklin with composure, "is, rather, the manger of the priests. Anyway I shall repudiate none of my sonnets, even those I wrote years ago, which are not nearly as original as they should be."

"Proud and humble, as were ever the masters of the temple," observed the minister with false urbanity. He drifted away to another group and the three pairs of eyes followed his retreating figure with expressions varying from mockery to pity. But the trio kept their thoughts of their host to themselves.

"Did we not meet in Zanzibar?" asked Franklin, in his downright way, turning to the prince.

"Unfortunately, no! I am virgin soil so far as the equator is concerned. It must have been my brother Stefan."

"Of course; but I thought..."

Scherer was eyeing him shrewdly, and thought he detected that the questioner had deliberately confused the personality of the two brothers. But Franklin's nature was far simpler than Scherer surmised, and, even when he was making use of a ruse, he was always honest in intention. The prince's answer, however, raised a doubt in his mind, and this doubt had found speedy expression in his face. He was unhappy at his own blunder, he was unhappy at the prince's manner and tone when replying. In his embarrassment he glanced over at Scherer who immediately came to his aid:

"Then we may hope, after what you've said, for more poems from your pen in the future? Unless you trade only in coco-nuts or in royal and imperial decrees?"

His genial laughter was much to Franklin's taste, and it was merely to keep the ball rolling that he answered provocatively: "Verses only, unfortunately!"

"Why so?" retorted Scherer, still smiling.

"As a poet I am prone to overestimate the importance of commerce, just as you, a business man, obviously attach too much importance to poetry—or at least to my stuff."

"Neither yours nor any one else's," said Scherer in a more serious tone. "Everything in this world depends upon the perfection with which a sonnet is written."

"Say rather upon the perfection of a coco-nut!"

They all laughed, though not quite as heartily as their manner implied. It was as if they were nonplussed and trying to fill in an embarrassing pause. Then Scherer turned upon the prince:

"Suppose you tell us who's right? Reveal unto us the truth, O Oracle! I am all humility and attention...."

"But I am not," interpolated Franklin decisively, though in no unfriendly spirit.

"Do you hear?" laughed the prince, rising slightly on his toes. "That man is obviously in the right who defies the oracle, for he is sure of himself."

"I live among oracles," answered Franklin; "every day I put half a dozen questions or more—or maybe it's the gods I question."

"You can't escape that way," laughed Scherer, "for the prince probably traces his ancestry back to the gods, to Thor or to Wotan...."

"Not so bad," said Eduard, touched both as scion of an ancient line and as anarchist. "But such whimsies only attack the younger nobility, people who have no prospect of ascending a throne—like Lord Byron, for instance. We older stocks only count by centuries."

The prince said this with so puckish a humour that none could accuse him of arrogance. But Scherer took him up:

"Then the line passed from the gods over the nobleman's head to the poet?"

"And back from the poet to the gods," growled the prince. "Curve downwards, with a tendency to soar upwards again. Looping the loop in mythology. Herr Franklin has undoubtedly won this round!"

CHAPTER THREE

Diana read the Bombay agent's letter a second time, slowly, thoughtfully, for the roundabout method of expression the writer had chosen seemed to her most un-English. She wondered if he could be concealing something. Was he trying to ingratiate himself with Scherer, who had big schemes on hand and needed a trustworthy correspondent on the spot, or did he mean by these references of his to "competing plans" to get as much private information as possible from headquarters at Berlin in order to use his knowledge against the firm in the sequel? Such ambiguity in business affairs was not at all to her liking. She must satisfy her mind as to what kind of person this Englishman might be. Opening the index cabinet she selected the man's previous correspondence and stood reading his letters at the window.

Thus it was that Scherer found her, silhouetted against the pale light reflected up from the snow, her face in profile, her dark tailor-made gown contrasting with the white walls of the office. He, too, held a sheet of paper in his hand, and, as he stood for a moment on the threshold, he realized anew the amazing productivity of an association such as theirs. They acted and reacted upon one another, a genuine camaraderie in which the erotic element seemed to have been entirely eliminated.

"Well," she said, not moving from her place. "Am I disturbing you?"

Neither seemed eager to broach the subject of their thoughts. It was not in Scherer's nature to play the chief with his employee by suddenly intruding with a question of his own into the realm of her activity. She, too, was cautious enough not to endanger her position by imparting needless details of information. So, this morning, as was their custom in these daily encounters of theirs, they stood looking at one another in silence, almost like two opponents. The woman was the first to yield. She smiled, dropped the hand which held the letter to her side, and looked at her employer with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. The man always enjoyed these subtle duels of the will, which were fought out in mid air. At last he drew nearer, and, pointing to the paper in his hand, asked:

"Do you happen to remember a certain Said Bey, the timekeeper on the Anatolian railway?"

"Of course. But first you must tell me whether this Henry S. Jackson in Bombay..."

"Who on earth is he?"

"Your future information agent in India. Can one offer the man a higher wage?"

"Why?"

"His references are good, and he seems to be coquetting with your rivals."

"With our rivals?"

"Yes, with yours," she affirmed, for she was ever careful to make it clear that she was no part of the firm, and would therefore never acquiesce in the use of "our" and "we." Scherer was very well aware of her sensitiveness in the matter, and, in order to change the topic, said he would look into the case. He had not come here merely for a talk, though he had used Said Bey as a stalking horse. His respect for her time and intelligence forbade his interrupting her work unnecessarily; but today he had something urgent to discuss, and he was at a loss how to begin. Happily the telephone bell came to the rescue.

"Yes," Diana was saying, "This is she speaking." He guessed at once by her smile and the little exclamations she threw in here and there that the call was a private one, and was making to retire when Diana signed to him to stay. "All right, come Saturday," she cried, hanging the receiver up. Then, turning to Scherer: "It was only Prince Eduard!"

"Ah, I met him last night at Mühlwerth's," said he, going over to the window. He wanted Diana to face the light so that he might see what she was feeling. But she guessed what underlay the manœuvre, and stayed quietly where she was with her back to the light.

"You meet him occasionally?"

"He's been back a couple of weeks."

"And as tall and lanky as ever! He suddenly appeared in my box at the opera the other night—like Hamlet's ghost."

Scherer was none the wiser after this exchange, for Diana was completely mistress of the situation and her words flowed smoothly and easily. He knew that she had met the prince in the Balkans, and it was no feeling of jealousy which prompted him. All he wanted was to keep a friendly eye on her. She knew his motives, and, not wishing to disturb her friend's quiet confidence in her, she indulged this fancy of his. But he was never tired of putting her to the test, of studying her reactions, so now he said:

"By the way there was a stranger in the company, who stood out from among the other guests on account of his sunburn and his leanness. I can't help fancying you would have taken to him, although he's a bit grizzled. It was Franklin, the poet, consul, explorer."

"Is Franklin here?" she exclaimed with lively interest.

"Do you know him?"

"He's the man with the beautiful speaking voice with whom I studied Phœnician glass as a girl in the British Museum, a pupil of my father's. Didn't I ever tell you?"

At such moments he envied her the wealth of her experience, feeling that his own eminently successful career had been too even, too commonplace, too ordinary. Diana, on the contrary, realized how solitary she was. Her employer belonged to a circle of society in which he could meet the Franklins and Prince Eduards at parties and receptions from which she was debarred. She had no social status, no world at her back. True, she was free; but she had no roots anywhere; today here, tomorrow somewhere else, in fresh climes, among new strata of society. Little did either know that each was thus occupied with much the same kind of thoughts.

"Your well is a deep one," he said at last. "Always some fresh surprise is brought up in the bucket!"

She laughed:

"And there you sit on the window sill and imagine I'm going to allow you to fish up whatever you please!"

"Have I ever pried into your affairs?"

"I have always found you the pink of propriety, Herr Scherer."

He thought: "The pity of it! There seems to be a wall between us, a glass wall...."

While she was thinking: "A pity; he is so good, if I had a sister I could not wish her to have a nicer lover. He's a queer fellow. Never a woman in his life...."

She became aware that he was asking politely:

"Would you care to meet Herr Franklin again?"

"Very kind of you, but he'll probably come and look me up of his own accord. How would you like to meet him at my house?"

She had put the question nonchalantly, but Scherer, who was beginning to know her fairly well, detected an undertone of pride in the way she had countered his civility, which placed her on a social level with himself. These mute contests, wherein she sought to rob the man of the world of the advantages he had over a free nature such as hers, were always a delight to Scherer. They had precisely the stimulating effect Diana wished them to have, for from the very first day of their acquaintance she had realized how fruitful her influence might be upon this well-balanced temperament and upon the whole tenor of his purposeful life. Diana acted thus like a ferment upon all who came in contact with her.

Meanwhile the question and counter-question remained unanswered. Seeing Scherer once more cast his eyes on the paper he held, Diana now stepped across to where he stood and said:

"This man, Said Bey, you were asking about, was time-keeper on the railway when I was down there. He led a typically oriental life at Konia, doing absolutely nothing. He was said to be a person of a pious frame of mind, hatching conspiracies with the French consul whose wife was a friend of his...." She was kneeling with one knee on a chair as she spoke, and was see-sawing to and fro. He barely heard what she was saying. His eyes and his thoughts were engrossed in her, hovering between her delicate lips that spoke so calmly and so precisely, and the finely chiselled framework of her body which was brought into relief by the swaying movement of the chair.

An hour later Diana was making her way through the forsaken Tiergarten. Hoar-frost was still upon the trees which spread their boughs aloft in the bluish-white winter sky. Crystalline and airy, motionless but not rigid, they seemed to be caressed by a spirit's breath, a spirit that simultaneously liberated and bound captive; they were sweet and fresh, delivered from the wintry blasts and from their burden of snow, and looked like the product of an uncanny, leafless spring sending forth countless white blossoms. Diana, light of foot and of heart, as cheerful and cold as this enchanted woodland under the pale midday sun, went on her way, smiling to herself. A tiny breeze passed among the branches overhead, scattering a few of the eerie blossoms. Her mood was such that she could not resist the joy of running against the very next tree and shaking it so vigorously that a shower of hoar-frost fell on her, covering her dark clothes with a sprinkle of white. She looked up, like a child, opened her mouth, and tried to catch some of the drops. Then, as she was slapping her cap free, she became aware that she was not alone. Three paces away, leaning on a stick, a man was quietly observing her.

"Oh—have you been here long? How d'you do—how d'you do, Wilhelm!"

A fair young man, long-limbed, and with large eyes that gazed wonderingly on to the world, stood before her. He looked a trifle gawky in his big ulster and wide hat, was evidently shy, had a sad smile, and made no attempt to come nearer as he answered:

"Well, you see I thought perhaps you might be coming through the Tiergarten, and we might meet one another, and so I just came on the chance."

"Come along, we'd better keep on the move or we'll get cold," she said crisply, setting out in quick-march style. "Come on, come on," she teased, beginning to run, "otherwise we'll start dreaming!"

"The wood is dreaming already. What can you do to prevent it?"

He, too, quickened his pace until he was near enough to slip the crook of his walking stick into the belt of her coat and hold her back. Now he became more active and while she pulled and he held firm, he took her hand and pleaded:

"Nice, soft gloves. Do they fit so tight that...?"

"Frozen to my hands," she cried freeing both her hand from his grasp and her belt from his stick. "Fancy giving way to such sentimental wishes in the midst of sunshine and frost!—Well, what have you been doing all this while?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing, as usual," he said, dropping into step at her side. "But last night I saw the most beautiful lute I've ever seen in my life, or, let us say, the second most beautiful, almost as lovely as the one from Pieve di Cadore."

"Tell me all about it. Is it old?"

"Old? Did Luther not flourish somewhere about the seventeenth century? Or was it Old Fritz? You know such a lot. Well, it's a theorbo—about so big, like a bronze covered with patina, its belly like—do you remember that three-cornered seed of some Indian fruit you once showed me?—its belly is like that, and it has a full, rich tone, that has nevertheless a tartness which reminds me of that Burgundy I told you about, and..."

"Is it dear?"

"The price of a castle! Absolutely out of the question even for such a person as yourself—perhaps, if he were very economical for a year, a man in Scherer's position might be able to afford it...."

"Where may it be seen?"

"At my own pet curio-dealer's of course, in the Wilhelm Strasse, where we found those blue Schumann cups, which you gave away after all, and not even to me!"

"What amazing creatures these poets are, to be sure," thought Diana. Last night, at the upper end of the Wilhelm Strasse, dear old Franklin, evening dress and all complete, was one of a company at a ministerial reception, taking a look at the new political world, while at the lower end of the same street Wilhelm was nosing around among dusty lutes—"and yet both are at one and the same time the masters and the servants of their fantasies."

"I tell you what," she said after a pause, "I'll ask you to my house one of these days to meet a man who's just home from Africa. He's a poet, like yourself."

"He'll have some fine tales to tell! Where is he staying? I should love to look him up. Camels! And nigger girls with small, firm breasts! And the native dances! Oh, and, of course, elephants! I should like to go. And what about you?"

"I'd like to harness the pair of you together, give you rein, and let you gallop awhile through the world with me," she cried merrily, shaking a young tree so that he was powdered with frost.

"Diana! You are shaking away their dreams," protested Wilhelm, mopping the damp from his neck.

"I wish I could shake you too, so that one would rise higher and the other fall lower. Don't you understand?"

She kicked the herbage impatiently with the point of her shoe, as he cried half reproachfully:

"Do you mean in the world?"

"No, in the Wilhelm Strasse!"

Now both of them laughed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sidney was ensconced in an arm-chair in his sister's pleasant sitting-room. There was not much of him to be seen, save a pair of elegantly trousered legs crossed in mid air. Examining the treasures in a glass cupboard at the other side of the room was Prince Eduard. Both young men were smoking. They did not speak, but seemed to be awaiting some event which might break the distressful tension that resulted from their being alone together. They heard Diana moving about in a neighbouring room. Neither could endure the other, and both were now cudgelling their brains to discover why Diana should have brought them together a second time. A superficial look would imply that they had much in common. One in the early twenties, the other close on thirty, they both sought the same kind of distractions in the same kind of club circles, both were courtly, of an ironical turn of mind, reserved; it might have been expected that even in the course of many years' acquaintanceship no cause of friction should arise between them.

And yet from the first moment when Diana had introduced them to one another, a spontaneous feeling of mistrust had seized them both. Could it have been Sidney's boyish good looks, and the shy hesitancy of his first handshake, that had annoyed the elder man? Or was it the assumed stiffness of Prince Eduard's pose? Eduard sensed a dangerous reticence in the youth; Sidney felt that the prince's silence was due to arrogance; each had mental reserves in respect of the other. Thinking over the matter afterwards, they justified their attitude satisfactorily to themselves: the brother seeing in Eduard a princeling in search of a beautiful mistress; Eduard, a brother who by gambling and underground activities was bringing further discredit on a family which had already suffered in the world's esteem. This evening they had hitherto been content to exchange a chilly and formal greeting.

Although it was Sidney's duty to play the host in his sister's stead until she should appear, it fell to the prince to break the long silence. Pointing to the glass-doored cupboard with the tip of his patent-leather shoe, he said:

"A fine piece. Simplicity is after all the best master. How restful this room is with its couple of easy chairs, its two serviceable tables, its many flowers and few pictures. It speaks eloquently of the occupant!"

"Yes, thank goodness," agreed Sidney, pulling himself up and looking round. "Style consists in bringing suitable things together. I can conceive of nothing more intolerable than to have to live in a 'period' house, so that one has to come in like an old-time marquis, eat in a Raphael setting, listen to music in Napoleonic surroundings, and digest one's meals among the jejune furnishings of the ordinary middle-class household. That's the English fashion...."

"Were you long in England?"

"We were brought up there—at least I was. My father lives in London."

"Fräulein de Wassilko has not spoken of him to me."

"She rarely speaks of him. She is very fond of him."

Prince Eduard became pensive. "That's beautifully put," he thought; and again he was filled with envy of those people who could live their lives out in privacy, who were not for ever forced to be in the public eyes, whose genealogy was obscure.

Sidney was thinking: "That's touched him on the raw. He did not like a reference to the father, since he thinks he'll make light work of the brother to reach his ends!" Then, in spiteful mood, and hoping to get even with this scion of a ruling house from whom he expected nothing but arrogance and treachery, he said:

"Didn't I see you the other day talking with His Highness? He looked to me a good deal older than the pictures of him would have us believe."

"My father is far from well," answered Eduard, much relieved that Diana came in at that moment.

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me for being late. Well, Sidney, I hope you did the honours in proper style. What's the time?"

Her manner was easy. She wore a loosely falling dress with a chain of amber beads so long that it reached her knees although she had wound it twice round her neck.

"I am glad to find you 'en famille,' for I am an ambassador bringing a petition," said Eduard.

"This sounds very solemn!"

"You are respectfully requested to play the part of a goddess. The divine huntress."

"A southern one?" asked Sidney in unfriendly tones. "We are still in February—a Prussian February!"

"And yet I have just come from a hive of buzzing ladies," retorted the prince, "gathered together with intent to uplift, or ameliorate, or educate, or—well, in a word, I come from a meeting of some women's welfare society or other. The chair was occupied by my worthy chief's wife, Baroness Mühlwerth, who is a wholehearted advocate of human progress, and supports the movement with the full weight of her—of her position. The slogan runs: Down with prejudice! The committee is meeting today to discuss plans for the organization of a great propaganda festival. Admission (which does not include the banquet) gentlemen thirty marks, ladies twenty. I have never been able to fathom why the admission price for women should be less than for men.—Let that pass.—The profits to be devoted to the cause of illegitimate children, so there's to be a ball and tableaux. Subject: A Gallery of Famous Women. Of course they won't be the most important, for those only seek notoriety in memoirs. The women in this gallery are to be persons who have acquired legitimate celebrity, a celebrity built up in the course of centuries, tier upon tier like a wedding cake, from Semiramis down to Sonya Kovaleffska."

"How many tickets do you want me to buy?" asked Diana.

"Oh, but I haven't come here to sell you tickets! You are misunderstanding me. What these worthy ladies have sent me to do is to get your consent to figure in one of the tableaux they have arranged, in No. 4—or 5, I can't remember which. They literally assaulted me with petitions: You know Fräulein de Wassilko! She is so lovely, so beautiful! You must persuade her to do it! She's the only one who can take the part of Atalanta!"

Sidney frowned. His lower lip drooped, as a greyhound's does when it is about to be nasty. He moved away from the other two, murmuring:

"That's queer!"

Diana, who disliked that others should precipitate her decisions, felt mischievously defiant, and inclined to acquiesce in the plan before her better judgment could counsel her to refuse. There was vexation in her face, as she looked at her brother's back.

"Atalanta," she said softly, going towards a little bronze statue on the writing-table. It was a copy of the Diana at the Louvre, short-kirtled for action, her hand holding back by the antlers the very deer she is about to chase. Diana stood gazing down at the statuette, her arms behind her, as if studying the lines of the perfect body of the sculptured goddess. But her cold and searching glance passed beyond the little figure on the table. How long she stood thus before the godlike impersonation of herself, she did not know. Sidney, the inevitable cigarette between his lips, stood by the window, looking askance at his sister from the farther end of the room. Eduard, on the other hand, felt his pulses quicken as he watched the silent colloquy with approval. For the first time he became fully aware of her two-fold nature: the pensive woman and the free woman; the ardent woman and the student. He had always instinctively felt this duality of character, but it was his cultured mind that had brought him to realization. During these last few weeks he had felt bolder, and younger than he had ever hoped he might feel again.

At first he had been unsympathetic towards the charitable scheme. But when the chairwoman had read the name of Atalanta from the list of notable women, his imagination had summoned up Diana's figure in a trice. He was, therefore, hardly surprised when commissioned to seek her out and get her to consent. All the way to her rooms, he had been wondering if she would agree. For three seconds he would see her from afar.... But it would be before a thousand others eyes.... Had not the whole thing already taken place? ... And was it not now a memory and nothing more? ... Or could it be that his heart misgave him? Was it that, from a distant box, protected behind an opera glass, he wanted to assure himself that she was as beautiful as the picture his imagination had conjured up? ... He was inclined to repent of his mission, when, with an abrupt move, as if she had suddenly made up her mind, Diana turned and faced him, supporting herself from behind by her hands on the edge of the table where the goddess presided. Then, with perfect self-possession, she said:

"Agreed!"

Sidney scowled. The prince bowed, and seemed to await an addendum. She came towards him, defiantly, and continued:

"But you can tell your ladies that I refuse to play the part in a perfunctory way. I hate tights, and nobody is to dictate to me the manner and mode of my appearance— Good evening," she exclaimed as Scherer and Franklin came in.

Franklin had already called upon her, but she had felt a little estranged. He had plied her with questions, and she was not accustomed to giving an account of herself to anyone. She did not feel inclined to permit his bluntness to encroach upon her freedom. During the years since they had parted, Diana had developed into an independent personality. Franklin, although younger than his grey hair would lead one to believe, had become more staid; whereas she, in spite of her rich experience of life, seemed to have grown younger, to be even more full of vitality than before. He was inclined to cherish the illusion that he would be able to take up the threads where he had dropped them, become the teacher again, establish a mastery over one who had long enjoyed the boon of liberty.

Franklin would have liked to unite in himself the qualities of a man of the world and an artist, and he could not help feeling a twinge of affectionate envy for this young woman who, in spite of playing her part in the turmoil of mundane life, succeeded in being the artist as well. In addition, he was curious to know what sort of man this child—it was thus he thought of her—would bless with her favours. There would be no shadow of jealousy in this case; his regard for her was paternal, thanks to his friendship with her father and his relationship to her as a little girl.

Diana read him easily, and determined to fend off his indiscreet questionings in a friendly spirit. But she felt that Sidney would not be a match for him, and would have to be shielded from his intrusiveness. The four guests were obviously embarrassed. Though each had been separately to Diana's rooms before, they had never met here together. There was a feeling of tension in the air, which warned the hostess that she had better lead her guests to the dining-room as soon as possible, when at that very moment Wilhelm arrived breathless on the scene and put them all at their ease.

"So sorry, it really isn't my fault," he gabbled in his usual rambling way, "for what could I do if a dapple-grey horse drawing a carriage, very slowly, passed me by, with a lady inside smiling like the queen of heaven, as they say in the court circulars, only it was true this time, yes, smiling full graciously at me..."

"Oh, Wilhelm, that's so like you," said Diana. "This is Wilhelm," she continued, turning to the company and not mentioning his surname, "and his dapple-greys are quite enough to betray what kind of a man he is without my taking the trouble to introduce him as a poet. Let's go in to dinner."

The ice was broken. None of them wished to shine, but each contributed his quota to a sprightly interchange of rather desultory conversation which ranged from overfeeding on ocean-going steamers to Hungarian national dishes and back again to the sea with its dolphins and its flying fishes. Diana, as hostess, was prone to take a back seat, and so this evening she let her five guests do the talking while she followed the trail of her own thoughts: "They are all artists and men of the world, and yet I should be nonplussed, except of course in Wilhelm's case, to say just exactly what each of them really is, for Scherer is also a philosopher, and I fancy the prince hides the heart of a poet."

"You must decide," she heard Prince Eduard say to Franklin, "for, sandwiched as I am between two poets, I have no choice but to fall back upon the time-honoured method of setting you one against the other! On my right," he phrased his speech rather peculiarly so as to avoid mentioning names, seeing that he knew the young man only as Wilhelm, "we have enthusiastic eulogies of your position as consul. Can you, in spite of having been there in person, swear in cold blood that Zanzibar, an exporting land of third-rate importance, exchanged (thank all the gods there be) against Heligoland, is a genuine island swimming on the bosom of the waters, and is not just a place on a map where the sea is always painted such an obstreperous blue? That forests of palm trees, forests like our Grunewald with its pines, Potsdam in short, stretch away for mile upon mile against the everlastingly cloudless skies? That coco-nuts, as large as a full-sized baby, hang threateningly suspended over the heads of the natives, and when one of the fruits does happen to fall it is the nut and not the head which suffers damage?"

"What is Your Highness doing?" exclaimed Wilhelm. "Would you deprive us even of the scent of clove carnations in that magic isle? It does smell of carnations, doesn't it, Dr. Franklin? Say it does, please! I read all about it in a detailed account, and have no intention of influencing you one way or the other."

"Well," bantered Scherer, "are you going to answer as poet or as man of the world?"

"Both conceptions of the place are correct," began Franklin perfectly seriously. But he could not proceed, for the company burst into merry laughter.

"As diplomatist," exclaimed Diana. "But the day you become Austrian minister for foreign affairs you'll have to write verses again, poems about Zanzibar."

"Maybe—when we have dined," put in Wilhelm, whose author's vanity was a trifle touched. "For the moment, we want an answer to the prince's question."

"You are right, Herr Wilhelm," said Franklin, "Zanzibar is a medley of Indian gems, of silks, wood inlays, daggers; it is a wilderness of phœnix palms; an island in the sea, which catches the rays of sun and moon so that it becomes iridescent as a shell; it is a place wherein the long, lean Arab steals to and fro; where the palaces have roofs opening to the sky, and princely dames sit there of an evening, fanning themselves drowsily in the twilight. No place, be it never so hoary with saga and legend, is more entrancing than this island whose airs are heavy with the scent of carnations. But Zanzibar is likewise a market of third-rate (though I fancy it has risen to second place now!) importance; it has an export harbour with evil-smelling warehouses, yelling niggers, black women at whose pendant breasts squalling children tug. It is a nest of wicked intriguers acting on behalf of the great powers, a land whose soil is being drained of its fertility by the thriftless farming of Arabs, a land overrun by rapacious half-castes and perfidious Hindus—in fact it is a world in miniature, Herr Wilhelm, just like any other State where the chancelleries and business houses smell, like Zanzibar, of the mixed perfumes of carnations and sweat."

"I am all for the carnations," cried Wilhelm resolutely.

"Quite recently," said Scherer, "I heard a speaker who demanded justice for his brethren, and yet he was howled down by the very persons on whose behalf he was speaking, because he advocated methods of achievement that pleased him but which did not please his auditors. What was that man out for, do you fancy? For the carnations? Or for the sweat?"

"For crucifixion," murmured the prince.

"Maybe he was out for power," said Diana pensively, looking at the last speaker. But Eduard did not answer. At such moments her voice was apt to become inaudible to his ears, and he was only aware of the shaft from her falcon eyes.

When, later, they had gone to her sitting-room, the prince said softly to Diana:

"This consul represents the newer forms of public activity. He has, as it were, skipped the disappointments which are almost inevitably the lot of idealists. And yet I cannot rid myself of one final doubt, whether the expenditure of time, energy, and talent is really worth the experience gained, whether there is any balance between the two—as in the case of that marvellous cuckoo clock we had in the nursery at home, which went unfailingly for twenty years and was obviously wound up by the hand of God."

"The present cuckoo," said Sidney sardonically, fixing his eyes on Franklin, "is obviously wound up every morning with the utmost precision."

His sally at the elder man's expense brought balm to his feelings, which had been set on edge by Franklin's paternal attitude. But it laid him open to a possible agreement with the prince's contention, and this he determined to avoid. He found it impossible to escape a feeling of antagonism towards all men who admired his sister, for he was jealous of her without loving her, and hated her friends without harbouring any jealousy towards them.

Scherer, who had been keeping a tight hand on himself all the evening, now said reflectively:

"Herr Franklin is a poet, whatever you may say."

"And precisely for that reason we can allow him his export statistics," exclaimed Diana.

Meanwhile Franklin and Wilhelm were standing in the bow window. The young man seemed to have won the elder man's regard. Candour, and belief in everything that was said, such were two of the characteristics possessed by Wilhelm, and they reminded Franklin of himself as a youth, though, if he remembered rightly, he had been somewhat more ambitious at Wilhelm's age. He was genuinely happy at finding so disingenuous a youngster, one who looked forth with such innocent eyes into a world which Franklin at that age had already resolved to analyse and investigate.

"Would you, too, like to travel?" he asked at length.

"I can't understand you," said Wilhelm irrelevantly. "When I listen to you speaking, you seem to me like one of those knights of old who wore silken shifts under their armour."

"Armour does not form part of my outfit," answered Franklin gaily. "But I always carry an opera glass handy, and alternately look through the wrong end and the right. Thus I get a vision of the world at close quarters or at a distance—a most hygienic exercise for the eyes of one's soul!"

He moved away to join the others, for he wanted to get Scherer to elaborate an idea which had only been broached between them at the Political Club recently: the idea of introducing on the continent the English system of news service, the "tape," whereby items of interest were recorded without comment anywhere you liked.

"I can't see," said Scherer, "why Berlin should not be able to install what every good hotel in London has installed in the lounge. It's merely a matter of organization."

"As to telegraph, I'd have it introduced right into the heart of the jungle," exclaimed Franklin, rhapsodically. "It is the symbol of our epoch. I am fascinated with the notion that when I become a minister of State I shall sit in my little office and my words shall float out over land and sea, and shall be recorded there, crisp and dry, meting out law and order to nigger chieftains!"

"No doubt about the dryness," commented Eduard, "especially when we are dealing with dispatches from the Wilhelm Strasse!"

Wilhelm, who was all ears, could not understand what they were laughing at, and asked them to explain the joke.

"Just imagine for a moment," exclaimed Franklin good-humouredly, while Diana handed round the coffee, "a long strip of paper, endlessly running on a rod under a a little glass plate, and a strange kind of pencil writing on it, ceaselessly writing, day and night, while you stand in front of it...."

"What is it writing? A novel?"

"Something far more precious," said Diana, who was taking an active part in this new undertaking of Scherer's. "It's writing the most exciting things imaginable, for the tape itself has no idea what is going to be inscribed on it from minute to minute."

Wilhelm suspected them all of playing upon his credulity, and asked cautiously:

"Who dictates the stuff?"

"Life, Wilhelm!"

Diana spoke quietly and reverently. Eduard was moved by the words and by the way she had said them. Franklin was struck by the tone of her voice, and vague thoughts drifted through his brain. But Scherer came to the young poet's rescue.

"At a telephone exchange, thousands of messages flow in from every part of the world...."

"Yes, I know that...."

"Well, by means of a ticker," exclaimed Scherer patiently, "news is recorded on a strip of paper, and the message then transmitted through another instrument to hundreds of hotels and clubs and private houses. And these tickers, as the paper moves continually onward, record all the important happenings throughout the world, and news-items are received simultaneously from Peking, Washington, Hamburg, or Zanzibar, always at the same speed, always in the same signs, without interruption, without any arrangement, just haphazard as they take place and as they are sent in."

"Wonderful," said Wilhelm softly. "It's like a piece of finely worked tapestry, a Gobelin."

"A mirror," put in Diana.

"A rhapsody," exclaimed Franklin.

All eyes were turned upon Wilhelm, who stood pensive. During the pause which followed, Prince Eduard joined them, saying:

"To me it sounded more like a fugue."

"It is a fugue," cried Diana and Franklin in one voice. This made them laugh; but the prince felt uneasy. Was she on intimate terms with this grey-haired and yet youthful man? Or had they been on such good terms formerly that now, after many years' separation, without prearrangement, they should have the same thoughts?

At that moment a sound came from the door. They all turned round to see who was there. The handle was pressed down, but no one entered.

"Doreville," cried Diana. The door was pushed open a little way and a light grey muzzle was seen through the opening. Then followed the remainder of a dog, whose length of limb and whose build resembled a greyhound, but whose muscular development and smooth coat made him look more like a Great Dane.

Sidney was transformed. The dog had made straight for him, and was now rubbing its head against the young man's knee. Laughing down at the creature, Sidney fondled it and spoke gently to it, bending over it affectionately. He looked so amazingly beautiful at the moment, that although none of the four other men could bear him, they were constrained to stare in silence at the charming picture.

Then the animal went over to Diana, and she, jumping up to meet it, pulled it towards her. At the same time her eyes caught sight of the statuette on the writing-table, and she scrutinized it as though to test it, to compare it with herself.

"The girl should be riding a horse," thought Franklin, "instead of sitting in an office; or she should be sailing upon the waters of her Macedonian birthplace, instead of being engaged in paddling about on the ponds of such typically urban conversations!"

"Maybe he was out for power," repeated Prince Eduard to himself, for Diana's tone had forced him to apply the words to himself.

Sidney and Wilhelm were looking at each other from either end of the room.

"He is certainly very handsome," thought Wilhelm. "But I wonder if he really can draw?"

"If I only had the naïveté of that boy," thought Sidney, "I'd be a genius."

CHAPTER FIVE

"Why do you affect this huge reception room, my dear Father? There are such cosy wine-cellars to go to nowadays, low-ceilinged, comfortable; the kind that only the upper middle class and artists used to patronize, but now available to higher circles of society. These old hotels along the Linden oppress one, as soon as one passes the threshold, by their Bismarckian proportions."

"And it is for that very reason that I am not going to allow my sons to persuade me into making a change," answered the old prince. "There are sufficient visitors here to make a public figure inconspicuous; besides, these many mirrors permit of one making valuable observations—or are the devices of our old-world diplomacy likewise to be thrown on the scrap-heap along with all the other relics of the Metternich age?"

Prince Eduard and his father were a strange contrast as they stood talking together. The old man's face was lined with suffering, his square musician's head was grey and bowed with the years and with illness, but it was finely moulded and gave an impression of great intelligence. The son's fair head, with its carefully parted hair, was long and narrow, for he took after his mother's family. They nevertheless had one point in common: both were fond of indulging in quaintly ironical turns of phrase, though the son's reserved nature, and his dread of giving himself away, frequently made him assume a cynical pose. As father and reigning monarch, the old man was kindly, though in other respects his knowledge of human nature had induced a mood of resigned scepticism. Towards this queer son whose mind was filled with such outlandish notions he was tolerant; indeed he loved the strange fellow, and was all the more lenient in that there was no likelihood of Eduard ever rising to a position of responsibility in which his modern ideas might jeopardize the welfare of the little State. True, this visit to the metropolis had been undertaken with a view to finding out by discreet inquiries at court and among old friends of the family what sort of company Eduard kept, for gossip was rife at the paternal residence, and painted the young man's life in lurid colours.

As they sat at dinner in a corner of the vast dining hall, they would have been cut off from the rest of the room were it not that the many mirrors reflected every detail to the very entrance. Prince Eduard's glance was continually travelling to these detectors while he spoke. Suddenly he leaned forward and scrutinized one of them with keener interest.

"On the contrary, I'm all for the old school," he said, "for I can look my fill, unobserved, at Olivia Countess of Münsterberg who is dining over there in a corner, alone, divinely beautiful in a dark-blue gown. Even you, Father, whom Queen Louise dandled as a baby, would enjoy the sight of her..."

"I met the countess yesterday, and had a word with her in the entrance hall. As for Queen Louise, she was a friend of your great-grandmother; and in spite of your proverbial lack of genealogical competence I should have thought some of your tutor's lessons might have stuck..."

"Good old Mengeberg," exclaimed Eduard. Then mimicking his teacher's voice and manner: "Now, let us recapitulate: Your late honoured great-grandmother..."

"Eduard!"

"Sorry, Father!"

"Tell me, is it true," continued the old man precipitately, partly to cover up the little reproof, and partly because the moment seemed opportune to put the question which had long occupied his thoughts, "is it true that Countess Münsterberg is on friendly terms with her former rival, that—that political agent or—whatever the woman may be?"

"What woman, Father?"

The young man's tone was so formal and so distant that the father realized his motives were discovered, and he acknowledged in his own mind that Eduard's forbearance was commendable. Yet they pursued the game as if neither knew what the other was driving at.

"But Eduard, you were there at the time..."

"Ah yes, so I was. Yes, I fancy they are seeing one another."

"Have you not met the countess there from time to time?"

"Yes, Father."

A pause. Eduard helped his father to another dish. The old man leaned forward and looked kindly into his son's face.

"Tell me, Eduard, is it seemly that you should visit that house?"

"If Countess Münsterberg..."

Another pause. The father settled himself back comfortably in his chair, sipped his wine with an affectation of relish, looked round as if wanting something to complete the savoury dish before him.

"What is it you want, Father? Mustard? Waiter! Mustard please."

"Yes, Sir!"

A third pause. The elder man again leaned forward, even going so far as to lay a hand lightly on his son's arm.

"My dear Eduard, you are in an independent position. Heinrich and Stefan are not so free. But I would ask you to consider this. There are people who may find occasion to say that you are often to be seen in the house of a young woman who cannot be your mistress since Countess Münsterberg visits her, but who is at the same time not quite obviously enough a lady whose position could warrant her, unwedded as she is, to keep a house of her own... For she is not received anywhere ... and Scherer's bachelor quarters seem to be the only respectable house she has hitherto been able to penetrate, the climax of her social achievement..."

Prince Eduard loved his father, and though during these last few weeks Diana's image and Diana's name had much occupied his mind, endowing him, the confirmed sceptic, with a youthful vivacity none of his friends had suspected him capable of, he had perpetually repeated to himself, as if to condone his sentiments: "But there is certainly one person who has a prior claim on you:—Father." Now, as he saw the beloved head before him, the warning the old man wished to give appeared in a fresh light, so that when Eduard spoke again there was a boyish ring in his voice and a smile on his lips.

"Excuse me, Father. The climax attainable by—that lady—far exceeds the confines of the salons she sets her foot in. Remember what the worthy Mengeberg, whose shade you so recently called up from the tomb, remember what he, at your command, used to tell us about the aristocracy of the mind."

The tenderness with which he pronounced the words "sets her foot" struck the old man as something quite novel in his son. He thought: "Things seem to have gone pretty deep with him, and it is all rendered even more complex by the fact that she does not appear to be his mistress."

"Still, it's a pity you should see so much of political women," he said at last.

"I fear Curtius—or was it Senderstein?—has misinformed you. The lady whom your gentlemen are so worried about is not in any way connected with politics.—Won't you take a little cheese?"

"No thanks. Please go on..."

"There's nothing more to say. Are we going to spoil our evening together on account of some one whom I've seen at most about four times? Does that look as if I were in love, Father?"

"I hope not, Eduard."

"What are you afraid of, then? To what end all those precepts of toleration, that catechism of liberalism which you so earnestly forced upon us all in the hope of democratizing your realm? Because poor Heinrich cannot marry a lady with fewer than thirteen quarterings in her coat-of-arms, am I to forgo the acquaintance of a woman who happens to earn her own livelihood?" He broke off suddenly, surprised at his own vivacity. Then, laughing: "How absurdly melodramatic! I might be quoting a socialist paper!"

In spite of his earnestness, he had not raised his voice, nor exceeded the bounds imposed by respect and good breeding. But the father was so unaccustomed to hear this son of his express himself with feeling, that he was profoundly moved. He felt that Eduard had right on his side, and yet he continued to question the young man coldly:

"German family?"

"I think some Slav blood as well, born in the Balkans, the father has become anglicized."

"Is he—on view?"

"No, only a brother."

"What—does this brother do?"

"I don't know, Father."

"They tell me he gambles."

"Quite possible. I saw him once at the club playing with Sagan. The duke won."

The old man dipped his fingers into the bowl, and as he dried them he seemed to be washing his hands of this matter as one he would rather discuss no further. He realized that his son had had the best of the argument, that the duke's name had been introduced adroitly, all the more since the scene of the card-table had very likely been invented on the spur of the moment. He seized the favourable opportunity thus afforded him to ask innocently:

"Do you see much of Sagan?"

"I met him recently at my chief's."

"Ah, and how is Mühlwerth?"

Eduard, delighted at having tided over the momentary clash with his father, answered in his customary mocking yet courteous tone:

"Mühlwerth is playing to the gallery, while his lady struts as tragedy queen by his side. False democrats, Father, coquetting with the left wing. When he drives along in an open car, he ostentatiously reads Vorwaerts. The first day he was in office, he... Have one of mine, won't you?"

They had both opened their silver cigarette cases bearing the family crest, and each was pressing the other to partake, the older man offering a large sized smoke tucked away in two orderly rows in a wide case, the younger, with a less steady hand, offering lighter fare in a smaller case. They smiled at one another as they made their choice, and the reconciliation was complete.

"Thanks. And what did Mühlwerth do the first day he was in office?"

"Many thanks.—He got there at twenty past eight, himself opened all the correspondence—one hundred and eighty letters in all—read every line, dictated to three typists who were scared out of their senses and had come dribbling in at eight-forty, eight-fifty, and eight fifty-five, the whole hundred and eighty answers, and at half past ten, when we were standing around at a loss how to repair the catastrophe: 'I trust your well-known acumen to see to it that these answers are modified as far as may be necessary to make them fully accordant with the tenor of your letter-files.'"

He stopped short as he heard a boyish voice greeting him, and looking up beheld Sidney. The youth's extraordinary beauty, his resemblance to Diana in all essentials save that his face was unwholesomely pale and his eyes lacked lustre, struck the prince afresh. The old man was rather repelled by so much comeliness in a male, and asked coldly:

"Who's that? I don't know quite what to make of your modern types, but it seems to me that that young man must be a natural son of a man of distinction—unless he happens to be a well-bred actor."

"Ignotus," lied Eduard complacently, resolved to avoid reopening a subject which might renew the friction between him and his father.

"He seems to be accosting Countess Münsterberg. Does she live here?"

"Yes, I fancy she does."

In the mirror, Eduard saw Sidney bowing to the countess, his gesture almost maidenly in its graceful disingenuousness. Olivia then motioned him to a chair at her side. The likeness to Diana, the talk he had just had with his father, the dim light that pervaded the room, everything combined to make the prince feel that Diana herself was over there by the countess, masquerading in male attire. It was a relief to him when the old man rose and he could rid himself of the vision the mirror revealed. As they sought the exit, he endeavoured to edge his father away from the young couple. But try as he would, he did not succeed. Olivia and the reigning prince only exchanged a few commonplaces, but the thing Eduard had especially wished to avoid took place. Before he realized quite what had happened, he heard the countess saying:

"Herr de Wassilko."

The deed was done. Eduard grew pale, and he hardly knew whether to thank his father or not, when the old man, turning on his heel, silently left the room.

"What a splendid veteran," commented Olivia in her golden voice, her languorous eyes looking ardently into the grey, catlike orbs of her companion. She might well have been Sidney's mother, so that her expression had something incestuous about it. Passion alone could serve as bond between two such disparate natures.

Not until he was driving home did Eduard find sufficient peace of mind to reflect calmly upon the relationship between these two. Yet he had been aware of it at the first glance. He knew that Olivia had been Diana's guest once, and must therefore have met Sidney on that occasion. Her greedy eyes having alighted on so handsome a youth, it would not take long for his precociousness to rally to her desire.

"She is capable of any freedom where the feelings are concerned," thought Eduard, as he jolted along in company with his father. But what of the young man himself? Why did he meet her half way? Because of her rank, or because of her money?

Meanwhile the old man at his side was asking himself:

"Why did Eduard pretend not to know his inamorata's brother?"

After a while he asked aloud:

"Wassilko, is not that a Ruthenian name?"

"Quite possibly."

"Or, maybe, it is Polish," said the old man, amused by his son's reticence. "You never can tell with such people...."

CHAPTER SIX

The ball was at its height. Two orchestras, one at either end of the huge hall, alternately struck up a succession of dances; eighty ladies, members of the organizing committee, were unwearied in their efforts to keep the guests amused; fairy lights, garlands, curious and delectable sweetmeats, a myriad fanciful preparations abounded to enchant the charitably hearted crowd. And yet a certain North German rigidity kept the dancers from abandoning themselves to the revels which perhaps lacked freshness and originality to a society already surfeited with the pleasures the metropolis had to offer. Still, two thousand persons had paid entrance money, and the treasurer reckoned on a return of no less than forty thousand marks.

Eleven o'clock struck, and the multitude was urged to withdraw to the farther end of the hall. A noisy march blared out, and the guests found themselves faced by serried ranks of chairs. On consulting their programmes, the younger dancers sighed when they realized that they would now have to face half an hour of edification. "Living pictures to orchestral accompaniment in the style of the epoch," they read.

"Why are the names of the participants not given? That is really the only point of interest in the whole show. Do you happen to know who they are?"

"I'm going along to have a look," said Sidney.

He felt uneasy, and nevertheless he was determined, unobserved by his sister, to gaze his fill at her. Diana was to him like a much-loved statue. When he knew her to be among admirers, his selfish regard for her demanded that she behave coldly towards all other men. His affection made the thought of her as the object and the victim of masculine desire intolerable. Did not the same blood flow in her veins as in his? He might wish that she had a woman as friend. But his wish must for ever remain unfulfilled, for Diana was not the kind of woman to make friends among her own sex. Women fought shy of her, and Olivia was the only one for whom Diana could feel affection.

"So you are here after all," a strident voice was saying to Olivia in welcome. "My dear, why didn't you give us the pleasure of adding your name to our list of distinguished patrons?"

The speaker was Baroness Mühlwerth, who now took a chair just behind Olivia.

"I am still leading a very retired life," answered the countess simply.

"Yes, yes, of course," the baroness rejoined fluently and heedlessly. "But on occasions such as this, intelligent people always manage to put in an appearance, although as a rule they can find little pleasure in sharing the amusements of the thoughtless many. Ideas invariably triumph in the end!"

Prince Eduard had just run up against Scherer, and would like to have got clear again. But the newspaper magnate was unwilling to let him go. The older man pressed the younger to share his box, and at that moment the lights were lowered.

A beautiful girl stepped forward on the platform and endeavoured to gain a hearing for a little speech which the restless merrymakers rendered inaudible. She was to have spoken a kind of prologue outlining the benefits woman had brought to mankind. Her futile efforts were applauded, and, instantly, the orchestra began to play the priests' stately march from The Magic Flute. The curtain went up, and Semiramis, the most remote in the annals of notable women, was disclosed, sitting stiffly on her throne, clad in gold, a regal figure indeed, flanked by Assyrian lions. Four girl slaves crouched nearby, while a grandee of the empire knelt offering a salver. The whole tableau was obviously meant to symbolize the subjugation of half Asia.

"Who is the severe looking lady?" asked Scherer, glancing over his shoulder at the prince. "You are on the committee, so you must know."

"A certain Frau Meister or Meiler, who has been influenced by Deussen's treatise on cuneiform writing, and therefore insists that Semiramis did not wear a veil. She was willing, however, to retire if the other members of the committee felt that such an opinion was erroneous."

Scherer smiled, while the remainder of the audience clapped its appreciation. The curtain was raised once more on the unveiled Semiramis, whose heart throbbed responsive to these plaudits, and to the pleasure of being the target for two thousand pairs of eyes.

"Has one long to wait between tableaux?" asked Scherer.

"I am not on the tableaux committee, and have no responsibility in the matter. Through private channels of information I've managed to get a lot of fun out of the affair. Ah, the band has struck up Schumann's Hebrew Melodies; that means that Holofernes is about to receive his quietus from the woman's movement!"

The second tableau showed a man asleep upon a renaissance sofa, completely unaware that a tall, dark-haired Jewess was about to slay him with his own sword. The group had been fashioned after Caravaggio's picture, and won lively applause.

"Quite authentic, eh?" the baroness was saying to Olivia, while intending her neighbours to hear as well. "She's Goldmann's daughter, you know, the councillor to the Board of Trade. Religious prejudice would be out of place under the circumstances."

"Hasn't Goldmann himself any?"

The baroness laughed up at the questioner and answered softly:

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Franklin, the young lady's father did enter a protest. He suggested that his daughter be allowed to represent Maria Theresa rather than Judith."

When the 'cellos began to play the opening strains of the Aria in A-major from Gluck's Iphigenia, the young girls in the audience instinctively drew closer together while the men nodded their approval. Every one appeared now to be at ease as the curtain rose on a heavily-draped woman representing the Greek heroine, endeavouring with a kindly gesture to heal her retreating brother. But some of the audience did not fail to note the absence of the Furies to the left of the scene.

"Capital," exclaimed Scherer. "I suppose the Eumenides were too naked...."

"That goes without saying," answered the prince absently, and for a moment Scherer failed to catch the import of the prince's mischievous insinuation.

This tableau proved a great favourite, and the curtain was raised repeatedly. All agreed that it was the best thus far shown.

"Atalanta next," some one said.

"I'm not sure..."

"The huntress, is it not?"

"Quite right; the Caledonian boar! Meleager."

This time the music was less familiar, and sounded strangely in the ears of these merrymakers. Ah, yes, of course, Debussy's L'après-midi d'un jaune. Diana had selected the piece, and had herself arranged the tableau. The band played for some little while before the curtain was raised, and then, for a moment, the audience was nonplussed.

Hitherto the tableaux had depicted groups in postures of activity. Now, on a greatly diminished stage, before a red curtain, a solitary figure emerged in relief. The young woman was seen in profile, resting her weight on the left foot, while her right hand fondled a great hound. Both woman and hound stood absolutely motionless.

Diana had modelled herself upon the Louvre statue of the huntress, a copy of which was on the writing-table in her flat. She had a golden fillet circling her brow, and a short, full chiton of the same colour covering her from breast to knee. The draperies were so arranged as to give the effect of being blown against her body by the wind and carried backward so as to expose part of the left thigh. Her sandals, the girdle fastened high under the breast, the quiver on her back, all were of the same shade of gold, which harmonized exquisitely with the red curtain, the grey dog, and the fine bronze of her skin. The beast at her side did not stir, and his gentle breathing only served to enhance the beautiful effect of this living statue, coming as it did so rhythmically from between his teeth and setting the muscles over the ribs quivering and vibrating.

The curtain remained up longer for this tableau than for its predecessors, while the band continued to play the beautiful, strange music. When at last it was lowered, the applause, at first hesitant, became vociferous. But the curtain was not raised a second time, only the strains of Debussy's magical music continued until the end. The assembly was eager to see the tableau once more and was not a little vexed when its applause was ignored. Many, in their excitement, had risen in their places. Now they resumed their seats and waited for the music to stop. "Who can the lady be?" was on everyone's lips. Few could answer the question for Diana's name and antecedents were very little known in Berlin society circles. A few of the older ladies were at first inclined to protest against the breach of the conventions, judging the tableau to have exceeded the limits of propriety. But such objections were speedily quelled, for no one in this domain of pseudo-emancipation had any wish to appear old-fashioned and reactionary. Some of the older men whispered to one another that the young lady had undoubtedly been scantily clad. The younger girls blushed under the scrutiny of their admirers, who seemed to be making unfavourable comparisons.

Olivia, completely taken off her guard, had risen as she recognized Diana and softly spoke her name. But a lady in the next row, pointing to the programme, had corrected the countess, saying: "Atalanta is what's printed here." The baroness, who was relishing the sensational atmosphere of the whole scene, began to laugh, whereat Olivia was put out of countenance. Her eyes fluttered from left to right, and her pleasure in the scene was spoilt.

Franklin, who had been let into the secret, looked on as connoisseur. He had advised Diana to take up a somewhat firmer position than the one adopted in the original statue. But she had laughed, having made up her mind to measure her strength with the marble model in every detail. Now his feelings were divided for he half wished that his fears might prove to be well grounded, while at the same time he hoped she might come out of the ordeal triumphant all along the line. He was thus almost too agitated to enjoy the tableau to the full. Further, his heart was troubled by another image which he had glimpsed a moment before the curtain rose on Diana. His eyes had encountered those of Olivia.

As soon as Debussy's strange music beat upon his ears, Scherer had become keenly attentive. He asked the prince how it was that such a modern composition had found its way into this place. Receiving no answer, he turned round, and found the prince's place vacant. He was greatly surprised when he recognized Diana in the person of Atalanta; indeed, he was so taken aback that he was incapable of savouring unreservedly a sight he had many times yearned to have before his eyes. Still, he greatly relished the artistic perfection of the grouping and execution; she looked so maidenly, so strong, so free, that the artist in him was satisfied. He laid his opera glass aside, and glanced round the hall. In a box opposite he saw Sidney, standing, wrapped in a fur coat, and in an attitude so similar to the one Diana had assumed that the relationship between the two was even more obvious than usual. As Sidney took up his opera hat and left the box, Scherer, for the first time, felt his heart go out to that young man in genuine sympathy. He wanted to join him, to be with him. How could he know what feelings were troubling the young man's heart?

Scherer rose and was preparing to leave his box when a voice from the neighbouring box, speaking in broken German, inquired:

"Do you know the name of the young lady who stood as the huntress just now?"

"Haven't the ghost of an idea, Doctor," answered another voice with a strong Berlinese accent.

Like a flash of lightning Scherer's acute memory recalled a scene: a strike-meeting that he and Diana had attended together, incognito, as an adventure. There had been the usual talk of wages and oppression, and then a square-headed young Slav, a peasant from the Caucasus, had arisen and talked with passionate idealism about brotherhood, in a speech that had gone quite over the heads of the city workers in the meeting. A fair-haired young Russian, blue-eyed, wearing a close-fitting jacket of dark cloth—what could he be doing in a society affair such as this? The Russian stood motionless, staring at the curtain as if it were not there and he was still contemplating the tableau of the goddess and her dog. Scherer recognized the man who was with the Russian as one of the parliamentary deputies of the German Social Democratic Party. The two men nodded to one another.

"You have guests in your box?" inquired Scherer.

"The box is not mine, nor have I any guests," said the deputy as if to excuse his presence at a society function. "I merely wished my Russian friend to have a little relaxation after a heavy day at accounts. Allow me——Doctor Sergievitch, Herr Scherer," whereupon Scherer felt his hand gripped by a huge peasant fist.

"I heard you speak not so very long ago," said Scherer with greater directness than was his wont.

"Ah? Do you often go to our meetings?" asked the Russian, with a slight emphasis on the "you."

"Yes, but in other clothes," laughed Scherer, for Sergievitch seemed to base his doubts rather on the dress of the interlocutor than on anything else.

"How do you like the tableaux?" Scherer went on to ask politely.

"One only was to my liking," answered the Russian curtly.

Prince Eduard was the only member of the audience who had known beforehand what he was to expect. And now he had seen Diana as he had always hoped to see her; stepping boldly forward on splendidly muscular legs, slim of haunch, her broad chest veiled by diaphanous draperies, her bronzed arms bare, one hand reaching for the arrows in the quiver slung over her back. His gaze travelled up to her face which he had seen but yesterday so close and so aloof, in quietude or in animation, severe, sweet and tender, or fiery, and he felt he could never take his eyes off this personification of youth. Yet the ruthless curtain fell, and severed him from the vision.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Diana had gone straight home after her tableau. As she entered her flat the maid told her that Doctor Franklin had been waiting to see her for ten minutes or so.

The visit was not wholly welcome, for Diana had wished to be alone, had wanted not to speak to anyone this evening. The tableau had had for her a quasi-religious significance. For a moment, she had embodied the semblance of the goddess whose name she bore, and she had felt herself to be the handmaiden of her to whom she had dedicated her life. She had hardly been conscious of all this until that very morning when she had waked in her white bedroom and had beheld the pale wintry sun shining through the window greeting her like a herald from a southern clime. Then, in silence, she had offered up a prayer to her namesake, as if in very truth the huntress were a deity. While driving to the show, her mind had been wholly concerned with practical affairs. She thought of the beautiful way the draperies were to cling to her, of how she would hold Doreville by the collar and constrain him to stillness; and on the homeward journey she had been wondering if perhaps she had not lifted her right heel a trifle too high.

"Are you hungry?" she asked Franklin, unable wholly to hide her irritation. "Mary won't be long now. She is bringing Doreville home."

"How splendidly he behaved."

"Could you see him breathing?"

"When I looked at the tableaux through my glasses it was easy to see that all the figures were breathing, with one exception—you, my child."

"I had lost the knack of holding my breath and have been practising every day for the last week by holding my face under water in my bath."

She took a cigarette from the box and threw herself just as she was, in her dark walking dress, upon a low sofa. She looked pensive and serious.

Franklin was in a mood of contemplation rather than of admiration, and as he looked down on her reclining form he no longer saw her as an individual but as a type. He followed in imagination the course of the development of the eager girl she had been, to the beautiful woman she was now; and, with the injustice habitual to mankind (which is on the whole envious when it sees a beloved being on the way to a fruitful expansion) he asked himself whether her experience of life had not been bought too dear, whether the wandering and aimless existence she led had not hindered the development of her inner self. Only to his artist friends did he acknowledge the cleavage in his own soul, torn as it was between the world of art and the world of practical affairs; and, like all active idealists, he was inclined to be intolerant when other idealists invaded his privacies.

"Is it really necessary," he said with a smile, "to learn diving if one would be a goddess?"

She sat up. All that was combative in her nature was on the alert.

"Is it really necessary," she expostulated, "to visa passports in order to be lord of the land of dreams?"

"One tries to keep the two things separate...."

Diana relaxed, and laid her head back among the cushions.

"For my part, my dear Franklin, I try to combine the two."

"You were very fine, Diana. Even the foot you were not putting your weight on remained perfectly steady. Your breast and hair were in keeping with works of the seventh or sixth century. You seemed to belong to the classical world, for unfortunately you wear your hair short."

"Yet the Sphinx is old. I think she is ages older," she retorted pertly.

"Only the Sphinx happens to be a man, you know," he corrected, her provocative manner have piqued him into assuming the rôle of teacher.

"You are awfully domineering tonight; whereas I feel..." She did not finish her thoughts, but stretched her arms out sideways.

"A younger man's company would suit your mood better, I fancy."

She clasped her hands under her head and looked at him, a challenge in her eyes.

"You seem to take me for an idiot or a cow...."

"Not at all; just a woman."

She became defiant.

"Mm, and yet, barely an hour ago, I was Diana immaculata striding through the woods!"

"A statue which is very active on weekdays!"

"Like certain poets, Franklin."

"Precisely! Do you not realize that I am fighting against myself and not against you, dear child?"

"My father is very different from you," she said, hoping to discourage his paternal airs.

"Your father, like all mysteries, is a precious possession. For that very reason he will never tell you genuine truths."

She did not stir, but put her next question squarely.

"What do you object to in my present way of living?"

He blew the smoke noisily through his lips and rejoined:

"I had hoped..."

At that moment the door opened and Countess Olivia entered, accompanied by the dog.

Of all those who had been spectators at the entertainment and had seen Diana's tableau, Olivia had been the most deeply stirred. Filled with loving envy of Diana's youthful freedom, she had today experienced an almost tragical intensity of delight which had urged her to come and tell Diana of her affectionate gratitude for the pleasure the tableau had given. So great had been her desire to unburden herself that, contrary to her custom, she had hastened hither instantly in spite of the late hour. She had met Mary and the dog as she was waiting for her car and had offered to give them both a lift. The faithful old soul had assured her she would find Diana alone and had again as the car drew up before Diana's door, urgently requested her to drop in for a moment. Now the countess stood motionless and aghast on the threshold. Her hand loosed its hold on the dog's collar, whereupon Doreville precipitated himself upon his mistress, displaying so stormy a delight at finding her again as to prevent her rising to receive her visitor.

Franklin, too, was taken aback by the countess's intrusion, and his chilly aspect added to the lady's discomfiture. Diana's mood, however, was considerably enlivened by the new turn of affairs. She did not speak immediately, but while trying to calm the dog's demonstrations of joy, lay thinking:

"How quickly people are made to suffer when they over-step the conventions. The countess has to pay for it because she comes to visit me at an unusual hour; and Franklin is punished for his contrariety by the inopportune appearance of this blond beauty."

She smiled at Olivia, saying:

"I am so pleased that you should have brought him and not someone else. He did splendidly, didn't he? He has earned his supper, and we'll give him the bone I promised if he were good. Mary! Please bring in tea for us all.—You must be perishing with cold; or did I suffer alone because of my scanty raiment? Huntress goddesses must wear furs here in Prussia if they are to enjoy the chase!—Do take this yellow chair, it goes so well with your dress. That blue reminds me of the southern seas."

"Your tableau was very beautiful," said Olivia gravely. Her velvety voice made Diana think of the lap of the waters among the rocks at the foot of the countess's Dalmatian home, away there in the Adriatic, the ancestral castle of ancient story.

"Thank you," she answered no less gravely, looking affectionately at Olivia. Then, in lighter voice: "You are the first among all those who saw my tableau to tell me that. For the poet here has only had time to criticize my way of wearing my hair. I like long hair in others, but not for myself."

The tea-tray was now brought in. A bone for the dog too, and Doreville was put through his paces before being given his reward for his good behaviour. There were questions of sugar, of cream, of rum, and all the other byplay relating to the comfort of her guests. Yet the atmosphere remained charged, and not one of the three felt at ease.

Diana's thoughts ran: "Why could they not have left me to myself? I wonder whether she came on Sidney's account?"

Olivia mused: "She is more racy than Sidney. I wish I were a man so that I could be her lover. What does that old bachelor want from me?"

Franklin was thinking: "Those two women are a living poem. There they sit opposite one another and I am hard put to it, as I am with Titian's picture, to decide which represents sacred love and which profane."

They simultaneously broke the silence which had encompassed them, and their voices seemed to them to come from infinite distance.

"Was the hall full?"

"Not a free seat to be seen."

"They must have done well for their charity."

But Diana as she spoke was thinking: "I wonder if Franklin is her lover? Their voices go so well together."

And Olivia: "I shall not see Sidney again."

Franklin: "Leopardess and lioness."

Aloud they were saying, and again their voices seemed to be coming from afar:

"Did you have a good place?"

"Yes, about the sixth row."

"One could see well from every part of the hall."

At last they were gone.

"I wonder why my tall prince did not come? A visit from him would have pleased me better," thought Diana as she slipped into bed.

Franklin, in order to prolong the few minutes he would be in the countess's company, had proposed to walk home with her across the park. The arc lamps shone down upon the tree-tops like moons that had come close to the earth. It was a lovely night, clear and fresh as only a winter night can be. They walked along in silence side by side; and the longer the silence lasted, the more freely did they allow their thoughts to range, until Franklin said aloud:

"And yet Diana's beauty is no more than a cloak to protect her liberty."

Olivia's mind had been toying with similar ideas. She looked up suddenly at the tall stranger with the mellow voice, and the poet read in her eyes the meaning of her melancholy. Olivia said:

"And at the same time it is a magic garment which carries her away into the air. Have you known her long?"

"Many years ago I was studying with her father in London. She was my fellow student."

"Is he a professor?"

"He is a sage."

"Does he live alone?"

"As man of the world and crank."

"Is her mother still alive? She never speaks of her."

"She died when giving birth to her son. It is for that reason that the old man cannot bear to have his son near him. Her name was Helena, but he never mentioned her to me. Diana once showed me her picture."

As they emerged from the park, Franklin reflected that he had wasted his few minutes with Olivia in talk about Diana instead of about the countess herself, and he would have liked to remedy matters now. But she turned to him again and asked:

"Do you think she cares for her brother?"

Franklin answered innocently:

"He'll make good yet."

"As an artist?"

"As a man."

Olivia's thoughts took a somewhat cynical turn. Then:

"I may hope for as much in my son's case!"

"You have a son, Countess? A child?"

"Not that, but a boy who is still quite young."

"Like you?"

"He takes after his father."

Franklin suddenly remembered the duel which had put an end to the count's career, he remembered that a love affair had been the cause of the duel, and he saw the woman walking at his side burdened rather than protected by her furs, and for several minutes he climbed the ladder of imagination, up and down, up and down again, giving his fancy full play. Then, very slowly, as if he would have prepared to stop half way in the expression of his thought, he murmured:

"And his father was, so I am told, obliging enough to..."

Ten strides separated her from her hotel. Olivia was thinking:

"They are all alike, these poets, these worthy cits. Ah, if only our own people were less banal, one would give such men the go-by.—Sidney took a room here yesterday. I suppose he's waiting for me in the lobby."

Aloud she said frigidly to the man who had seen her home:

"Thanks. Good night."

But the young man was not awaiting her in the lobby after all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Next day, while Diana was at breakfast, Sidney called.

"Wonders will never cease," exclaimed Diana; "you up at half past eight in the morning! What's afoot?"

"I have it in mind to come round every day until further notice at nine o'clock, if your chief will agree to your arriving an hour later at the office. It all depends upon you."

He spoke quietly, but with a note of firmness in his voice, and with a sprightliness of mien she was surprised to find in a man of his lackadaisical disposition.

"Can it be that you are in love, and want to have me teach you Serbian or Turkish because your lady understands no other tongue?"

"May I light up, or is it too early?" he asked, striking a match. He did not sit in his usual way with his legs higher than his head, but, rather, as rider. Both his feet were firmly planted on the floor, he narrowed his eyes as if he were about to take pencil in hand and start drawing. Then he said:

"Didn't you and father always harbour a wish that I should do modelling?"

"And do you want to model me?"

He made no answer. Diana rose and went towards the window, drummed upon the pane, tapped her toe gently on the floor, and then stood silent for a while. Suddenly she turned about, folded her arms, looked steadily at her brother who had not moved from his earlier position and had kept his eyes fixed upon her, and at length asked composedly:

"Sidney, have you a commission to do this? Sit still, don't lose your temper at once like that. You have no commission for the work? Honour bright?"

She went up to him with the gait of a young man and held out her hand. He shook, but his expression remained somewhat rueful, his lips pouting, and his eyebrows raised. Diana took a deep breath, and said:

"That's all right. I'll gladly be your model, and I'll take you at your word. You'll come here every morning from eight to ten."

He smiled. Seductive lines formed themselves in the beautiful oval of his rather weak face, as he said, softly and beseechingly:

"I said nine."

Diana laughed gaily. She took him round the neck and kissed him. But he seized her vehemently and drew her towards him, so that Diana's heart seemed to cease beating for a second. Her spirit darkened. She closed her eyes against her brother's soft cheek. Then she pulled herself free.

"You really mean that we shall work? The place will have to be very adequately warmed. There is rather a draught from the bay window."

"Why not in your bedroom?"

Again her heart seemed to stop beating. After a moment's hesitation she acquiesced.

"And when do you wish to begin?"

"Tomorrow."

"Are you going to do some sketches first?"

"No, I'll start straight away with the clay."

"Good." After a pause, and with slight emphasis, she added: "Of course the work will belong to me."

"If it is a success," he answered unsteadily.

"That won't do. I must have it in any case."

"Agreed!" he laughed.

When he had gone, she stood deep in thought. It seemed to her that her limbs were made of lead, for her body readily responded to her mood. He had vowed he was not commissioned to do the work. Yet she felt uneasy.

Sidney set himself to his task with feverish haste. He had been wont to do his drawing hesitantly, in an undisciplined way, by fits and starts. Now his whole manner was changed. Next morning, on the stroke of eight, he was knocking at Diana's door. He was elegantly dressed, as if paying a courtesy call. Diana was ready for him, waiting in a well heated room which she had had transformed from a bedroom into a workroom. The carpet had been covered with a dust-sheet. She stood on a wooden pedestal, clad like Atalanta in short, clinging draperies, almost naked. The quiver lay ready to sling over her shoulder. Sidney was baffled. He smiled, kneaded his clay, and hardly gave her a glance. Now he wished to start the work, took his measurements, then flung all aside and looked earnestly at her, saying:

"No, Diana. That won't do. I want—I would like—to model you in action."

She hesitated. Her thoughts seemed to drop from her head to her heart, and her feelings seemed to rise from her heart to her head and overwhelm her. For years, Diana had been endeavouring to cajole her brother to take his work seriously. Vainly had she tried to wean him from his lethargy, for she felt that it held nothing but danger for his future development. He had never mentioned any of his friends to her, and she was not at all sure that she wished to know anything about them. Occasionally, Scherer had given her news of him and his doings, but he had done so with caution, and she had not been encouraged to ask further.

Sidney's sudden decision to model her led Diana to believe that he was going through a crisis. She was reluctant to hamper him in any way, for she felt that her reappearance on the stage of his life had aroused more than his artistic appreciation. As his sister, she had been somewhat alarmed at the warmth of his embrace. But she was too courageous in face of danger and too proud to go back upon her resolutions. Besides she felt a maternal tenderness for Sidney which added to her determination to do all in her power to bring him back into the path of artistic accomplishment.

His half-commanding and half-imploring manner, the compelling gaze of his cat-like eyes, told her she must obey if she was to succeed in doing what she had set herself to do. Without a word, quite simply, she let the draperies fall from her shoulders. Now she stood before him, very still, her arms hanging by her side, her thoughts turned inward upon herself.

Swiftly and silently he gripped the moistened clay. Morning after morning for five consecutive days he toiled to reproduce what he saw before him. As soon as the two hours were up, he took his departure, silently, leaving the work wrapped in wet cloths. Thus he came, and thus he went. He had got her to stand in profile, as if striding along, her right arm slightly raised. He hardly spoke a word, and never came to see her at other times.

She had not looked closer at the work, nor even from where she stood did she seem to discover what he was doing.

On the fifth morning, as he was stopping work for the day, Diana flung her bath wrap over her shoulders and, drawing it closely round her, stepped up to the clay model which was about a quarter life size. Sidney stood behind her. She was looking at something that was certainly not a portrait of herself.

The clay showed her the figure of a girl of fifteen, remotely similar to herself; the breasts were small and undeveloped, the legs thin and boylike. The head resembled hers so little that it might have been modelled on a younger brother, one not even as like her as Sidney. The strange statue seemed to her the work of an amateur, of a man endowed with talent, but entirely self-taught. It set her guessing as to Sidney's fantastic and erotic life; she thought of his dreams....

She turned towards him and as she did so he looked away and began gathering his tools together. He did so precipitately and absent-mindedly. She hesitated to say a word of praise. It seemed to her that he wished to avoid any physical contact.

"Are you not going to work any more today?"

"It's all nonsense," he muttered. "Nothing doing. No use trying to blind oneself to the truth. Break it up. Thanks, all the same. Good-bye."

He made his exit in a state of agitation, leaving the fragment behind. No sooner was he gone than Diana began to study the work more closely. Her thoughts were confused, now flitting to him, now back upon herself, now concentrated upon this dream child. Mary came in to help her.

"Mr. Sidney went away at nine today?"

"Yes, Mary. Give me my coat and skirt, the black one, please."

"But the sun is shining today and it is sure to be warm."

"No matter."

While helping Diana to dress, the old servant glanced at the statue.

"Is that Mr. Sidney's work," she asked dryly.

"Do you like it?"

"What's it supposed to be?"

"Can't you recognize it?"

"No, I do not know the child."

Mary's opinion was important to Diana, for if this old nurse failed to recognize her youthful charge, the resemblance must indeed be difficult to trace.

"Why did Mr. Sidney want to do his modelling here?"

"There's no central heating where he lives."

"Ah, I see," answered Mary, paying little heed to the inconclusiveness of her mistress's explanation. She loved Sidney, but was sad at heart concerning him, and often wished that the lad's father would exercise a little parental control.

Diana lifted the statuette in her arms and carried it into the sitting-room. She set it up in the bay window.

Towards evening that same day Prince Eduard called. He did not notice the new statuette, for the bay window where Diana had placed it was not lighted. Since the evening of the charity fete he had come but once to see her, and had been told she was out. Today, a week later, he came without giving notice. His first words on entering were:

"It's an eternity, or as my old tutor would have said, a decade, since I last saw you. Our, or rather, your, evenings a trois seem to be things of the past.... Besides so many 'seasonable' events came to interfere.... And ever since the recent martyrdom I have not once looked up the committee ladies to present them with roses in token of my gratitude—though I should have done so seeing that I am the only male on the committee. The press has been obliging enough to do the job for me, but I don't suppose you have read the papers."

"I read nothing but the competitions," put in Diana as she paced to and fro. "Also the news items under the captions 'accidents,' 'agriculture,' 'weather forecast.' Herr Scherer tells me that the clerical press insists that in those days the huntresses were fully clad."

"The funeral orations concerning you were worse, for they were written with genuine feeling. One depicted the dream you had given him, although he can't possibly have had time to dream his dream and get it into next morning's paper. His soul..."

"Don't let's talk about the soul when the subject in hand is the body! It makes me think of the missionaries who corrupt the negroes by turning the poor creatures' thoughts away from work to contemplate the so-called soul."

"Psychology is a pitfall!"

"No," said Diana, whose critical faculty seemed to have become more acute since that morning's experience, "all that is wrong with psychology is that it should have escaped from the hands of the poets and brain specialists and strayed into the dubious hands of women and journalists. Dancers should not meddle with the science, and diplomatists would be well advised to give it closer study."

"At times they all begin to take an interest in it, and in the end this works productively."

"You mean to imply that the latter are led to embark upon bold undertakings, while the former set about concocting sly intrigues?"

"I meant that both are led to create racy offspring—and that handsome women petrify into pretty images, since they are too proud to become dancers and too dangerous to be allowed to dabble in diplomacy."

"Would either exist at all if there were no onlookers, do you think?"

"The way is free," laughed the prince waving his hand towards the stretch of carpet and stepping aside. "I, at least, will disappear behind the curtains."

She laughed, but as he entered the bay window he said:

"I seem to have fallen in with a very young girl."

He drew the curtain back, and Diana switched on a light which instantly flooded the statue. The prince became very still and very silent. Time passed by unheeded. He wanted to know who had stood as model and who could be the author. Gradually it dawned on him that Sidney might have done it, for the young man's sketches were familiar to him, and he had come to appreciate the work of this queer brother of Diana's. He did not venture, however, to mention any names, merely commenting:

"Good, quite good. Almost perverse. Pardon me, but who has fashioned this child?"

He deliberately chose the word "child" in order to exclude any thought that the statue resembled Diana. She put out the light, turned, and went back into the room, saying nonchalantly:

"A study by my brother."

"I did not know he modelled in clay."

"He's having a try at it now."

"What a waste of talent! He really ought to go to some art school or other and study."

"Do you see him sometimes?"

"Very seldom."

"Is he gambling still?"

"I—hardly know. Perhaps, a trifle, occasionally, as we all do."

Diana noticed the prince's embarrassment, and the old sensation of anguish seized upon her heart as it always did when she felt her own personal freedom was being invaded by other people's destinies. She must rid herself of the tension that had oppressed her since early morning. Her eye fell on the piano. Stepping up to it, she opened it and asked the prince to play.

Eduard, sensitively aware of her uneasiness, sat down and began to play, although in reality he was a violinist rather than a pianist. Diana sat at the other end of the room as far away from him as possible. She was wearing a golden brown frock, and lay back in an arm-chair, letting her thoughts run free. Not until he had played several bars did she recognize the piece.

It was Debussy's romantic idyl of the faun, upon whose strains she had built up her tableau of Atalanta. The tender and joyous strains flowed over her sad heart, and she was grateful to the prince for his gentle homage. Her limbs lost their leaden weariness, she slowly rose to her feet, and, hardly conscious that it might be the prince's former reference to the free path along the carpet and his gesture which invited her to dance, she began to move rhythmically to and fro in the room like a living statue, He scarcely looked at her, so anxious was he not to disturb her mood. But she knew very well that she owed him a debt of gratitude for having through his music broken the spell upon her limbs, and after a while she ceased her strange dance. He concluded the piece somewhat abruptly, but the picture had been engraved upon his memory. When, without any witticism or sardonic joke he took leave of her a moment later, he realized just as she did that a bond of feeling had been set up between them.

CHAPTER NINE

The first movement closed on a cadence. No one spoke. Franklin, who took the viola part, very softly tested his G string, which had gone a little flat, while Scherer, from his seat at the piano, looked over the top to where the 'cellist sat. Seeing that the trio of strings was ready, he started the adagio which he played as a passionate prologue. The piano was soon joined by the sombre strains of the viola, taking up the subject in fugal form. Now another voice, soaring aloft in seraphic ecstasy like a boy's, joined itself to the others. It was the violin, played by the prince. Eduard did not intend to make the violin part take precedence of the piano, as is so often the way with soloists when they embark on chamber music. But the exquisite tone of his instrument, and the upward curve of the melody, put the others for a moment into the shade, so that the three were forgotten, and, indeed, themselves both listeners and players, kept their parts strictly modified to form a genuine accompaniment.

Soon, however, the 'cello made its entry with a second subject in a more lively rhythm, and the boyish voice seemed to be replaced by the mellow contralto of a woman. Then, gradually, the strings were dominated by the virile notes of the piano, which, in generous chords, united the melodies into a harmonious whole.

The little company had forgathered in Scherer's music-room, a place devoid of carpets, and panelled throughout. Diana, who alone had been invited as audience, had ensconced herself in a corner, protected from the view of the players by darkness and distance. Neither during the previous quartette, nor during the one they were now performing had she cast her eyes towards the circle of light in which the musicians played, save once, when the 'cello had introduced the second theme. Then she had glanced over towards the player, who was a new acquisition to their circle. She mused: "He presses his instrument against him, and, gently caressing it with his hand, brings forth its rich and perfect tones." Her thoughts took flight into other realms of emotion; they hovered and dipped and rose again on wings of sensual delight, until her whole being was suffused with feelings such as she had not experienced since the previous summer, her life having since then passed on a purely platonic level.

The men broke up, stretching their legs which had become stiff with long sitting. They fluttered the pages of the music for a while in silence. Then, with maternal gentleness, the three string players tucked their instruments away into the cosy warmth of the cases, and snapped the locks to, while Scherer, spreading cloths over the keys and the outside of the piano, closed down the lid. Diana, meanwhile, had not stirred from her corner.

Scherer came slowly towards her.

"You are smiling," he said softly, taking a seat at her side. "And yet you have been gazing on Medusa's head."

"No, not Medusa's," she corrected, wincing as Scherer suddenly turned on the full lights in the centre of the room. "I hardly heard the presto. What's the opus number?"

Scherer named it.

"One of Beethoven's last works," he added, somewhat didactically. She had asked her question merely to gain time, and his tone instantly scattered what remained of her dreamlike trance. Suddenly rising, she stepped over to join the other group.

"Don't be too severe in your criticism, please," said Franklin. "I made a terrible hash of the last movement. But it goes so quickly, and I've never had much technique. Besides, I'm not used to playing with others."

"You'd rather play solo," teased Diana, laughingly.

They went in to dinner, Diana on Scherer's arm, and all five took their places at the round table.

"Yes, I like playing alone," exclaimed Franklin, his whole tone betraying how hard he found it to accommodate his libertarian temperament to co-operative labours.

"And yet," said Scherer, motioning the prince to a chair next Diana's and the other two men to the remaining places, "and yet, it seems to me that a solo player can never be a genuine musician."

"Poets never get beyond the solo stage," commented the prince. "They feel they must reign as absolute monarchs."

At these words the newcomer to the quartette raised his head. He had hitherto taken hardly any share in the conversation, and now turned his eyes on the speaker. But the prince was immersed in the contemplation of his plate, and, instead of the prince's eyes, the stranger met Diana's fixed upon him. There was an eloquent expression of protest in the man's whole countenance, a critical rebuke of the prince's paradoxical utterance.

"What a strange, dumb method of speech these Russians possess," thought Diana, lowering her eyes in turn to her plate.

After the introduction at the charity tableaux, Scherer had invited Dr. Kyril Sergievitch to his house, and had been surprised and delighted to learn that the young man played the 'cello. This was decidedly an addition to his musical evenings, for he had long wished to have a full quartette. His invitation had been all the more cordial and pressing. When he had told Diana of his find, he waited in vain for a token of surprise and curiosity in her, or, at least, some sign that she was forcing herself to show indifference. She had almost forgotten the Russian, and, in general was inclined to keep music and musicians apart from her inner life. When she had felt her hand in Sergievitch's huge fist earlier this evening, he seemed to her more bashful than she had expected him to be. She found his embarrassment difficult to explain, for Scherer had not told her of the meeting at the charity ball, nor of the Russian's question that same night, nor of their further encounters at the political club.

Diana and Sergievitch sat opposite one another, strangers, although each had seen the other at different times on a stage under somewhat peculiar circumstances.

Conversation emerged slowly for all were still under the spell of the music, and at first was carried on by the three other men, while Diana and the Russian sat silent, the latter intent and listening, the former abstracted.

"If everyone were to play tutti all the time," Franklin was saying challengingly, "who would be left to create and lead? The conductor? He's only an employee!"

"Perhaps the invisible composer, Herr Franklin," said Scherer.

"Dust and ashes this long while since," exclaimed the prince. "Ideas, if they are to be fecund here below, must filter down to us from the spheres of those who hold aloof from the world's turmoil."

Again the Russian raised his handsome head with its crown of fair hair. But his forehead was puckered in a frown as if he were trying to keep his eyes from flashing. This time it was Scherer who was given the benefit of the Russian's silent conversation. The effect on the host was somewhat uncanny, and, hoping to break the spell he said to his guest.

"You appear to be dubious?"

"Why should not ideas rise, once in a while? May it not be that this earth of ours holds hidden treasures, stores of ideas, undreamed of in that enlightened heaven of yours?" His eyes turned to the prince, dark and questioning.

Silence.

"A threatening storm," thought Franklin.

"Heavy artillery," thought the prince.

Then to crush any possibility of a debate in the Russian manner, Prince Eduard said aloud:

"Certainly, certainly, you are right, Doctor. Heaven and earth are each of them the mental terminuses of the human express."

"Why except the sea?" demanded Diana, a warm protest in her voice.

"What can one do with fishes and molluscs, Madam?" asked the Russian coldly. "The sea is just nature and nothing more!"

Diana turned away from the speaker, with an aggrieved air the prince was quick to detect. Franklin seemed to hear in space a conversation similar to this, but better developed and on a higher intellectual plane. Scherer was unwilling that so all-embracing a theme should occupy his guests while at dinner, and so soon after the enjoyment of the music. He tried therefore to soothe matters by saying:

"One thing is certain, that we have been permitted to hear the music of earth, sky, and ocean through the medium of your exquisite 'cello."

Passionate debater though he was, and loath to miss the opportunity of discussion with such an adversary as the prince, the Russian was nevertheless sidetracked by this reference to his beloved instrument. After a slight pause he said:

"Yes, it has a lovely tone. It is seventeenth century, from Brescia, a legacy from a friend of mine."

The quiet warmth with which he spoke acted soothingly upon the company, and the talk wandered off on to the subject of old fiddles. The prince told the story of his own violin, which he had inherited from long dead ancestors, he himself being the eleventh member of his family to be a competent player. Diana spoke of the wonderful lute Wilhelm had found, an instrument of so great value that Scherer alone was in a position to buy it, and even he would have to cut his expenses down for a year at least to do so. All made merry over the story, especially Scherer himself, who invariably chuckled over stories concerning his "great wealth." By the time the tokay was served they were in good fettle, and at ease one with the other.

"All the sunshine of Hungary has been captured in this bottle," cried Diana, "and there is more sunlight in this one glass than in the whole of the Balkans! In actual fact, I never have suffered from cold so greatly as in our Castoria, among the Macedonian lakes; and never experienced such heat as on Lake Flatten."

Everybody now complained of the unusual cold, which this year had continued intense even into March.

"Each morning as I turn that draughty corner in the Wilhelms Platz," said the prince, "my thoughts fly to Hamlet, Act One, the scene on the platform before the castle at Elsinore, when Francisco says: ''Tis bitter cold.' As soon as I enter the office, the resemblance to Hamlet becomes acute, because of the prevalent indecision in ministerial circles. So let us, Herr Scherer, up anchor and set sail for Zanzibar."

Franklin declared that nothing would please him better than to have the whole party as his guests in his Arab home; the Russian invited them all to Livadia, where the tsar's fist could not reach them; Scherer, who seemed to be enjoying some secret of his own apart from the others, turned to Diana, asking:

"And you? Whither does our good European want to take us?"

The men were silent, waiting upon her words.

"I? I have but one home," said Diana softly, "but I am afraid it is not to the liking of all here present." Her smile slowly changed from an external demonstration of social affability to one of inward enjoyment, while her companions sat expectant. Then quickly and fervently, she added: "My home is on the sea."

"I love the sea," said the Russian, who felt that her shaft had been aimed at him. "I don't expect any of you have sailed the seas so much as I. But I did not voyage on them in search—of ideas!"

"If only I possessed one that would please you," said Scherer blithely.

As he spoke he drew a postcard from his wallet and offered it to his neighbour at table. Diana looked upon the picture of a yacht, graceful and white, with but one funnel, and displaying abundance of tackle—a boat that could be used either as steamer or as sailing vessel. Aft, the deck was sheltered by an awning. The name of the yacht could be deciphered at the stern. It read, "Excelsior." Diana waved the picture aloft, crying:

"Excelsior!"

"Excelsior," echoed Scherer, smiling.

Franklin was the first to question. Then the whole company joined in a chorus of gleeful laughter.

"A friend in Hamburg has asked me whether I will not hire it for a few weeks because he himself has to go to London this spring. So I was wondering if you would care to give the sea and me the pleasure of your company for a little while...."

Eduard looked up in surprise. In a flash he sensed all that the invitation held of adventure. He glanced at Diana, then at Scherer, for Diana's eyes were fixed upon her host.

She was probably the only one of the party used to sudden invitations of the kind, and the way in which Scherer had spoken told her the command he was exercising over himself. She was loath to make a decision before the three men concerned had expressed their feelings in the matter. But since all eyes were now upon her, and everyone seemed waiting upon her word, she felt constrained to say something. Nothing better came to her mind than to exclaim once more:

"Excelsior!"

Now there was a different ring in her voice, as though she had said: "Excellent!"

Scherer handed round other papers with sketches of the yacht from various angles, information regarding its tonnage, accommodation, and so forth. Questions, surmises, proposals, flew from mouth to mouth. Only the Russian sat silent, waiting for the others to allow him a glimpse. But they seemed to have completely forgotten him. At last Scherer, to whom an adventure appealed only so long as he felt it was going to run the course he had planned, turned with sudden resolve towards Sergievitch, saying:

"And you, Doctor, if these gentlemen will but allow you a glimpse of the pictures, will see that there are six cabins in addition to those belonging to the crew. Will you choose one for yourself? I should recommend either No. 5 or No. 6, whichever seems to you the nicer."

The other men turned eagerly towards him encouraging him to a decision. But he sat silently gazing at Diana, who, unconscious of his scrutiny, was examining the intricacies of cordage one of the pictures displayed. At last the young man said:

"It is very kind of you, but I came to Germany to study ideas, not to voyage on the blue sea, not to study nature."

They laughed, and each was brought back upon himself. Even the prince felt he ought to think the matter over before deciding. But Scherer said:

"So that's settled. The only question remaining open is when we shall start. I was thinking that April would be a good month to choose. What do you say?"

Eduard and Franklin agreed. Diana demurred:

"I shall have to get leave of absence from my employer, first!"

"Your contract with the firm is quite clear upon that matter," retorted Scherer.

Diana looked pensive and remained so for the rest of the evening. The prince, as he contemplated her, realized how closely attuned she was to nature, to the sea and the wind and the sun. When Scherer left her to rejoin Franklin, who wished to have further particulars as to the length of the voyage, the prince and the Russian moved forward to her side, and the three thus stood grouped in the middle of the room.

"Are you going, too?" asked Diana, including both men in her glance.

"I'm entirely at your orders," answered the prince, assuming a certain military rigidity of pose.

The Russian laughed:

"Your orders! So German!"

"But only to those in authority," said the prince curtly.

"Is this fair lady...?" began Sergievitch.

"Only in the realm of ideas," Diana was quick to rejoin with a merry laugh. "Not in nature! And you?"

"I would pray for personal liberty," said the Russian proudly, his anarchist spirit rising in the ascendant.

"At your orders," retorted Diana coldly, looking through him haughtily as he bowed his acknowledgment.

Then she turned with a pleasant smile towards the prince.

BOOK FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

The white yacht sailed gracefully over the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean. She seemed to be moving in response to an inner impulse. This was the sixth day of the cruise, and that morning she had left the harbour at Messina to sail in a southerly course round the eastern shores of Sicily. The sea was calm, and the bows cut so smoothly into the water, that the dividing line between water and metal was as sharp as if it had been ruled with a diamond point on the surface of a mirror.

Diana stood in the bows, her head tossed back and the breeze playing with her curls, the white linen dress clinging to her and outlining breast and leg. From a distance, she might have been taken for the figure of that marble Nike which, in times of old, had been placed at the nose of the Greek warship and had flown forward to victory. But no one was about on this particular morning. She had ship and sea and sunlight to herself, so far as any personal observation was concerned, for the weatherbeaten helmsman and the two Low German sailors keeping the watch had no time to contemplate young ladies at so early an hour, even though, if we except old Mary, Diana was the only woman aboard.

And Diana knew that she was unobserved. She, like her companions, had started off in a spirit of adventure, and had sought nothing but enjoyment out of the voyage, the sprightly talk, the long silences, the laughter. But, alone of all the pleasant company, Diana knew and loved the sea, was under the spell of the dancing waters. She had felt this as soon as she stepped on board at Genoa, and now she was completely won to its moods and enchantments, in storm or calm, radiant at morn, tranquil at noon-tide, lively at sunset, or a murmuring mystery at night. She felt at home among the hawsers and tackle, the life-belts and ropes and masts, the shining brasses, all the paraphernalia of seafaring life. Untiringly she questioned the crew as to this, that, and the other detail she did not understand. She was learning to be an adept in reckoning how many knots they were making, in reading the charts, in calculating the mid pressure, and was becoming weather wise. Yet all this seemed to her no more than a game played upon the surface of the waters. Dark forces were at work within the abysses of her soul. She was lured within the magic circle of this fluid element, to plumb her own depths, dumbly, unseeingly, and to gauge her strength in the eyes of her friends and under the blue dome of the starry night. When such moods of self-contemplation assailed her, she forgot all about logarithms and maps, and allowed herself to penetrate into the mysteries of her own nature. Nowhere were such meditations more fruitful than when she was surrounded by the sea.

As Diana stood in the bows this morning she seemed to form part of the elements around her. The sunshine sparkled from the water as from the surface of a mirror, it was split up into a thousand facets on the ripples, as if the mighty fist of a god had dealt a blow upon the moving mass from which, at the moment of impact, a cascade of light had generated. But the impression upon Diana was different. The radiance and the sea were for her a world divided against itself and seeking reunion through strife; as night fell, the radiance was absorbed into the sea; when day dawned, it arose once more from the bosom of the waters; and this descent and resurrection was reproduced within herself as if she too were part of the living cosmos. The sensation of fettered freedom was strong upon her as the yacht glided through the Mediterranean, for here, and here alone, did night and morning become visible phenomena, superseding the habits of a lifetime, and giving concrete substance to the passage of the hours. The stars, which served to guide the vessel on her course, appeared more pregnant with mystery than those which shone over the houses of a town or even over the trees of a forest. At such moments, Diana became blind to externals, for she yielded herself up entirely to a kind of mystical contemplation. She saw neither birds nor fishes, nor the distant mountains coming slowly into view to starboard, nor the flattened cone shimmering white against the blue sky. Her thoughts were turned inward, while the breeze played fresh and cool upon her skin, the murmur of waters caressed her ears, the brine and the brilliance smote upon her eyes. Oblivious to all exterior happenings, she was only aware of palpitating sensation.

It was for her one of those rare moments of inner solitude which seem absolutely unattainable amid the growing tumult and complication of modern life. Of one thing alone did she become aware as the moments passed and she stood awake while her friends lay wrapped in slumber: that the sky was cloudless over a glittering sea.

CHAPTER TWO

She was roused from her reverie by the sound of rushing water. The men were washing down the decks, and she had to jump lightly on to a coil of ropes in order to escape the flood. It looked like glass as it flowed over the boards and through the scuppers. Diana felt her whole personality invaded by a sensation of cheerful security, of joy, at being absorbed as it were into a moving entity. She smiled serenely, and looked around her at these evidences of a century to which she seemed to be returning from a flight into a primal age. Westward, barely eight miles away, the rugged cliffs of an island rose out of the sea, crowned with what might be—she had no telescope—the Roman Theatre of Taormina. Years ago she had sailed these self-same waters, but she had never had an opportunity of visiting the island before, or of studying its coast-line. The young sailor who was busy swabbing down the deck had hitherto only sailed the Atlantic to and from America. This was his first experience of the Mediterranean, and he could give her none of the information she so eagerly desired. Nor could she consult the charts, for they were in the captain's cabin. The man at the wheel was always chary of words first thing in the morning. No one was about who could tell her what she longed to know. But soon the sound of an electric bell warned her that her friends were beginning to stir below, and she forgot her preoccupation with the landscape in order to guess who the ringer might be. Three times the summons was repeated, short, decisive, peremptory. It must be Scherer; he alone, as owner of the yacht, would venture on so authoritative an expression of urgency. The prince usually rang but once, with deliberation. Franklin's impatience was implied by three short, syncopated trills following close upon each other. The Russian never rang at all, probably, thought Diana, because it smacked too much of the master. She smiled to herself, hoping breakfast might soon be served. Meanwhile she watched the gulls flying overhead, and as she did so she heard footsteps approaching. The soft, slow tread told her that this was the fifth of her friends aboard.

When the plans for the cruise had been concluded, soon after that evening at Scherer's, and Diana had been asked if she knew of anyone else who would fit into the party, her thoughts had naturally flown to Wilhelm, whose lute playing and fanciful imagination would be greatly appreciated during such a voyage. Indeed, Wilhelm had proved so pleasant a companion to all concerned, that Scherer himself was grateful for the young man's presence.

"Good morning, Wilhelm," Diana called to him as he approached. "You are the first to put in an appearance, and yet you come an hour too late. The best of the day is past!"

"What? Breakfast?"

"No, the early hours!"

"But the sun's hardly risen."

"True; still, like a traveller after an hour's tramp, the sun's beginning to feel a trifle hot and weary. The first step into the free morning air when all the rest of the household is asleep, the first footfall to rouse the echoes along the slumbering street—that's over for today. And look, there's Etna!"

"You are cold," said Wilhelm waving his hand to the mountain. "Farewell! Farewell!—Where are we going to land?"

"Herr Scherer said Syracuse."

"At noon?"

"No, later. Perhaps not before evening."

"And there we'll find the tyrant?"

"Say, rather, the ear of Dionysius."

He sat Turkish fashion on a coil of ropes, his eyes blinking in the dazzle of sun and sea. His dreamy nature made him critical of all this clarity and hardness of outline. It seemed to him that the white apparition before him, resting a foot lightly upon a taut bit of cordage and leaning against the brass rail, with the background of blue, was poised in mid air.

"You have a way of talking about the gods as if they were relations of yours, Diana. And now you want to know where Dionysius keeps his ears! What do they matter? A man needs no more than mouth and nose to appreciate Burgundy."

"This morning you have no eyes," she retorted, smiling and poking him playfully with the point of her shoe. "If only you had ears! Then you would have heard what Herr Scherer had to tell us last night about this ear, seeing that this time, may it please you, we are not making for your tutelary deity, but for the tyrant who took the name of the god because—well, because he may have felt a kinship to the gods just as Diana does. And now let's have some breakfast."

So saying she jumped off the rail, pulled Wilhelm to his feet, linked arms with him, and sped down the deck to the dining-room, a place of glass and steel situated on the promenade deck. Taking the seat at the head of the table, she said to the steward, who awaited her orders menu in hand, "Oh, just give us anything you have a mind to, fruit, tea, what you will!"

"Impossible," protested Wilhelm, grasping the menu and measuring it with his fingers. "Eight inches of breakfast can't be walked off! And the spacing between dishes is as close as in the cheap edition of Jean Paul I have downstairs in my cabin. So for today I decree that we choose the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, and tomorrow we'll eat the uneven."

Thereupon he handed back the card to the steward who went off to get them what they had ordered. As soon as the man was out of earshot, Wilhelm said:

"Have you noticed how the Russian eats?"

"He eats splendidly," said Diana with ostentatious decision, smoothing her table napkin primly over her lap.

"Splendidly! Indeed?" The young man raised a hand in protest. Then with the utmost solemnity, as if the conventions of good manners were his main concern in life, he continued: "Didn't you notice how, last night at dinner, he took a quail in his fingers and bit off its head, smartly and almost savagely, as if he were an ogre dining off a grand duke?"

Diana laughed in spite of herself. She bit heartily into an apple, as she retorted:

"Yes, Wilhelm, smartly and savagely," and she suited her action to the words, biting ferociously into the fruit she held in hand. "I'm not particularly enamoured of this conceited young Russian, and as far as I am concerned he might have stayed at home. But he has the finest teeth I've ever seen biting into anything, and it's only when he attacks his food that you can see them, for he never laughs. Besides, as far as quails are concerned, conventional etiquette permits one to bite their heads off, as you can read for yourself in Brillat-Savarin, even if one be a grand duke and one takes the quail for a roasted anarchist!"

"I'll have to ask the prince about that," said Wilhelm huffily, helping himself to porridge. "He's nearly a grand duke himself and must know about such things better than any of us."

The prince appeared at that moment and stood looking through the glass door, as he said with indulgent pity:

"Fancy eating breakfast just as we are sailing by Fiumefreddo, Gurna, and Fondachello! A fleeting moment we may never hope to recapture...."

"Fancy sleeping on to eight o'clock on such a morning," retorted Diana, "and then to try and cloak the misdemeanour with an erudition acquired on the wing as it were—for I am sure you've only culled those names from a map as you were dressing!"

"Well, you can't deny that I've committed them to memory with commendable promptitude," said the prince, as he took his place on Diana's left, for, wishing to avoid formal etiquette of any kind, it had been agreed that all were to take their seats at table as chance would have it—an arrangement which invariably entailed a general post of table napkins as the prelude to every meal. "Fate, in the person of Giorgino, our worthy chef's assistant, who from a passionate desire to move in high social circles gets up when everyone else is asleep and lays the breakfast table, fate, I say, had decreed that the Russian should sit here. But I am not afraid to gainsay the dame by removing Sergievitch's napkin to a lower place at our board," and he suited the action to the word. "Good morning, Herr Wilhelm!"

Wilhelm, busy ladling in his porridge, was content to reply:

"Good morning! Do you happen ever to have killed a quail by biting off its head?"

The prince's eyebrows went up in perplexity at the question. Then, turning to Diana, he inquired:

"Has Herr Wilhelm had a bad dream?"

She shook her head, saying:

"Marsala, porridge, sea air, Jean Paul, and a good deal of Stromboli...."

"Too much Stromboli," interrupted Scherer as he came forward with the Russian. When the chorus of greetings had subsided, he continued: "Not only that, but too much mail as well. I was a fool to call for it in Messina yesterday, it's given me a headache going through the pile and has made me late for breakfast."

"Allow me," said Diana offering him the dish, and for a good while thereafter the five of them were busy with the details of breakfasting.

"Can I get no information for my department?" inquired Diana, at length.

"I suggest an editorial staff on the following lines," said the prince. "The aim of the Scherer expedition: to incite Lord Northcliffe to suicide. The means: publication of events just before their occurrence. Leader writer: the Captain. Trade: Herr Scherer. Commerce: Fräulein de Wassilko. Technical affairs: Herr Wilhelm. Advertisements: Herr Franklin. Art: Giorgino, who lays our dining table so well. Reminiscences of the twenty-first century: Dr. Sergievitch."

"And what about yourself, Prince?"

"I am, of course, the Constant Reader, who for years has sent in letters of protest, in English, in American, in Russian, in Italian, to say: 'I earnestly request you to give us a little less "Excelsior."'"

"Your arrangement won't do at all," interrupted Scherer, "for, since we shall have to depend on our advertisements for our financial security, we must have some one who can get up early!"

Whereupon they all began to comment on Franklin's unpunctuality as if they themselves had been up for hours. Diana recommended Wilhelm for the post, seeing that he had been the first of the men to put in an appearance, but, since Franklin himself entered at that moment, all were nonplussed for a reply.

"I'm awfully sorry," apologized Franklin, hastily slipping into the vacant place, "but I've had a most extraordinary dream!"

"With whom?" asked Wilhelm innocently.

"With a French colonial. He and I used constantly to be at loggerheads...."

Whereat they all laughed, and Diana said:

"The prince told us a similar story yesterday. It seems to me there is too much dreaming aboard the 'Excelsior.' You ought to run more races, or swing dumbbells or something. Have we any foils?"

"You need not have anxiety on my account," said Scherer, "for I never dream."

He spoke so simply that no one could doubt the truth of the statement. The prince's scepticism might have led him to demur had not Kyril, with his usual solemnity amid the flashes of wit and humour of his comrades, exclaimed:

"So there really are people in the world who never dream!"

"And who are, nevertheless, musical, you'd like to add. Eh?"

The prince had tossed the repartee to the Russian, hoping to bring a little levity into the solemn seriousness which the man's words had cast upon the company.

"No, what I had in mind was that there were actually persons who never dream and are yet competent to carry out business transactions."

Even the prince, paradoxical as were his outlooks as a rule, was taken aback. Who could have imagined such words in the mouth of a revolutionary? Everyone was now alert in the discussion, while Scherer endeavoured to exculpate himself by saying:

"And why not? So long as a man does not forget the dream of his own practical endeavour, what matters it if his nights are dreamless? Day cannot kill a dream which night has not created!"

"Wilhelm," cried Diana cheerfully, "confirmed dreamer that you are, there's hope for you yet! Even now you may become a man of action!" Her eyes met Franklin's as she spoke, and she realized that though he too was striving towards practical achievements, he had no wish to be exiled from the realm of dreams. She smiled at him across the table.

"You're laughing at me," protested Scherer.

"I am merely laughing at the principles of those who can tolerate fulfilment only when it is in harmony with their own peculiar nature."

The prince, silent himself, became aware that between Diana and the four other men, a series of epigrams was in course of construction. He seemed to perceive the thoughts like living sparks glowing in mid air, when the Russian intervened:

"Fulfilment? There's no such thing so far as rationalists are concerned, and as for us others it would only serve to hinder our activities. Unless one can die at the very moment of fulfilment, it were better never to have been born at all. He who, while dreaming, acts, is even more dangerous than he who could create in response to his dream. In this matter, likewise, I am all in favour of a partition of powers."

Franklin, hardly admitting even to himself how much he disliked the Russian, followed what Sergievitch said as in a dream, barely conscious of the meaning of the words. Before him he saw a man, handsome and young, with hair, complexion, and eyes so clear as to gainsay the sombre spirit which pervaded Kyril's whole inner being. Surely, thought Franklin, this man must be instinct with devotion, imagination, and at the same time so completely master of himself that he gives his fancy rein only to a circumscribed extent, never allowing it to get out of control. He sought to probe the young Russian's heart.

Precisely because he did not understand Kyril as well as Franklin did, Wilhelm liked the Russian. After a while he asked innocently:

"Do you mind telling me what partition of powers means?"

"Alternative spells of freedom and unfreedom," explained Scherer.

"Not bad, so long as you don't take the words in a political sense," commented Kyril. "All the same there's a certain danger...."

"Everything seems to harbour dangers for you this morning," said the prince politely. "And yet the sky is blue and cloudless, and there is no wind to ruffle the waters." He glanced over at Diana to see if she would not give the signal to rise. But she remained seated.

Scherer said softly: "Give me the man who, wide-awake, controls his deeds!"

"And I love the deed which is moulded on the anvil of a dream," put in Franklin.

All were silent for a time. Then Diana, turning to the prince, asked with a smile:

"What have you to say to this?"

"I? Oh, I am honestly fonder of the people themselves than of the people's leaders or of their works, though I would not renounce laurel or other crowns. But I know that such thoughts are quite out of date!"

He looked squarely at Diana as he finished, thus making it clear to her that he wished her to give the signal which should put an end to the meal. He wanted to withdraw, to be free, for he had revealed a tiny corner of his heart and felt profoundly moved at what he had done. In his embarrassment he turned away, and did not observe Kyril's blue eyes, more pure, more innocent than ever, fixed upon him appreciatively. The people! That word, falling from the lips of so paradoxical a creature as the prince, spoken so simply, nonplussed the revolutionary and yet gave him premonitions of a future understanding.

Diana, as she rose, avoided the eyes of both men, seeking Scherer's steady gaze. But instead, she encountered Wilhelm's boyish eyes, puzzled, perplexed, and she heard him mutter to himself:

"What on earth are they all talking about? I haven't understood a word!"

And he slipped through the glass door in her wake.

CHAPTER THREE

The sun hung midway between the zenith and the western horizon as the "Excelsior" drew near the harbour of Syracuse. As they approached, the travellers looked through the telescope at the reality about which they had been dreaming all along. But although the prince jested and Wilhelm gave rein to his fancy, the one dryly sceptical, the other naïve and ingenuous, although the whole company was eager and expectant at the proximity of this memorial of ancient Greece, yet their customary cheerfulness seemed a little damped this afternoon. Diana had passed the day in far-ranging talk with Wilhelm and Franklin; the others had been more silent than usual. It was obvious that the conversation was stimulated by Diana's presence, and though not actually antagonistic, nevertheless occasionally bordered on recrimination.

Scherer, as host and owner of the yacht, had become accustomed to the shade of arrogance with which the intellectuals of the party regarded him, the mere business man. He was tolerant and indulgent towards this unconscious assumption of superiority. But the way in which the Russian opposed Scherer's practical outlook on life with his own ideological conceptions, seemed to the financier on a different plane from the oppositions he encountered among his other guests. It made him pensive and a little uneasy on his own and on Sergievitch's account. For he felt that from the point of view of problems to be faced, he and the Russian had much in common, whereas, from the outlook of political principles, everything tended to keep them apart. He himself could never be more than a dabbler in socialism. He was instinctively aware that in the young foreigner's heart there was something else besides the anarchist autocrat. This premonition moved him profoundly, as when a man unintentionally touching a woman or seeing her in a new gown, is conscious of a sensual thrill at the contact or the sight, and suddenly realizes she is quitting the circle in which she has hitherto existed for him, and is escaping into the distance.

The party's spirits rose as the yacht put into the harbour. Scherer estimated the width of the entry which the Syracusans had once closed with chains and boats against the onslaughts of Nicias. There was talk of mines and submarines, and of how only the means had changed, not the theories. Once ashore, they found themselves accompanied by a growing crowd of self-constituted guides as they strolled about the streets of the ancient city. They chaffed one another about their recently acquired knowledge of the place—mostly crammed up for the occasion from guide books. The gloom which had clung to the company all day gradually dispelled, and even the two poets joined in the general hilarity. A little cluster of shrubs which formed a circle round the well in the ancient market-place attracted Wilhelm's attention.

"The first courier from Africa," said Scherer sententiously. "And to think that out of these amazingly bristly stalks the Egyptians of old made their amazingly bristly paper."

Wilhelm looked up, inquiringly, for he was puzzled.

"Scherer means papyrus," said Franklin softly. "You could write sonnets on the stuff."

Wilhelm passed his fingers over the stalks. Nowhere could he find a smooth surface.

"But how could one ever write on such a thing?" he asked suspiciously.

Scherer explained the process whereby the fibres were converted into paper, while the whole company lolled against the shaft of the well, and a dozen or more children and beggars took up their stand around the visitors. Wilhelm followed Scherer's little lecture with the keen curiosity of a boy.

"In a word," concluded the prince, who had recaptured his customary mood of raillery, "all the misfortunes which beset this world have their origin in this plant, which may be looked upon as the instrument whereby light has been brought out of the East!"

"It serves also to disseminate speeches from the throne, Your Highness," retorted Kyril provocatively.

"Sonnets, demonstrations, newspapers," said Scherer, still stroking the plant with his fingers, "the stuff's as dangerous as dynamite! Don't you think so too?"

Diana, to whom the question had been addressed in order to draw her out of her silence, answered laughingly:

"Does not one of you hear the voice of the well which is encircled by the plant? Arethusa herself, and at this very spot the hunted nymph must have been metamorphosed. The water in the well is salt to the tongue, so bitterly did the maiden weep. Diana was responsible for the metamorphosis..."

She muttered the last words to herself and gazed into the well's depths. There was a silence, while five men's eyes were fixed upon the young woman who stood leaning over the parapet, and who bore the name of a goddess.

The prince clicked his tongue. He hated to have to live through such moments of tension while in the company of others.

"Diana has in very truth metamorphosed all of us," he said at length. "How about following this gentleman who for the last ten minutes has been trying to entice us into his osteria?"

"Al teatro, Signori! Al teatro!" yelled a voice from the throng, while twenty hands pointed in the same direction, and twenty voices echoed the cry. It was agreed that they would go, and as they went towards the building the crowd pushed them and pulled them and gesticulated wildly. They passed over the bridge which separated Ortygia from the mainland, and soon came to the hill, Eduard leading the way amid a mob of citizens, and Kyril walking on the flank, not quite so hemmed in as the prince. Scherer, who was following with Franklin, noticed this and observed:

"How could a stranger decide which was the prince and which the man of the people?"

"But are they so different? Are they really so different?" asked Franklin. "Are they not, rather, brothers? Idealists both?"

"It often happens that those who belong to the same intellectual category possess the fewest points of resemblance."

"But would you suffer yourself to be kept apart from a person you liked simply because of differences in social status, position, rank, or what not?"

Scherer thought: "He'd love to write a sonnet on a papyrus after all!" A smile lighted up his face at the notion, and he said aloud: "Yes, such things can keep kindred spirits apart. Birth, above all, is a hindrance. The papyrus, born in Egypt, and transplanted to Syracuse, cannot be acclimatized in Stockholm. But what I mainly had in mind was the varying quantity of freedom these two men might enjoy and turn to advantage."

"Is the Russian then so fettered and unfree merely because the tsar has exiled him from the possible arena of his activity?"

"The Russian? I would rather say the prince; it is he who is shackled because his father is a reigning monarch! Can't you see the counterpart?"

Franklin was silent. His mind, ever ready to absorb as much of the world of reality as he could house in the realm of his fancy, was open to the influence of this man of the world. He was ever willing, despite his grey hairs, to acquire new knowledge, and, since the beginning of the cruise, he had kept aloof from Diana and Wilhelm whose playful ways put him out of humour.

These two young people brought up the rear. Wilhelm had held his peace for some time; then he said:

"Arethusa! I can fancy christening a serious little girl by such a name, a little maid one would sit upon one's knee. Arethusa..."

He weighed the name, dandling it, as if it were in actual fact a child one were playing with. Then he asked abruptly:

"Diana?"

"Yes, Wilhelm?"

"Are you really a nymph?"

"You are a fool," chanted Diana, running away from his side and rejoining the others.

It was not until they had entered the Greek theatre that they were able to shake off the crowd which had accompanied them. The custodian, a man as solemn as a Saracen and as beautiful as an Arab, uniting in his person the attributes of the two races out of which the Sicilians have sprung, was content to murmur a few names, and after a while he ceased talking altogether. The travellers sat motionless upon the topmost step, looking down on the great tiers which had been hewn out of the rock, and which still gave the impression of an amphitheatre. But an earthquake had destroyed the stage and other structures, thus freeing the view westward over the harbour, the town, and the sea.

The flight of steps was overgrown with moss and ivy, and the stone had been weathered by two thousand years of wind and brine. Laurels and cherry-laurels shaded the parapets and walls, while fresh green leaves were sprouting from the gnarled and twisted branches of ancient fig trees. Gloomy olive groves were burnished by the evening sun, and, clinging to the broken pillars of what had been the stage, the wistaria drooped under the weight of its heavy clusters of purple blossoms. The eye travelled over the silhouettes of towers and gables in the town, to the sea, circumscribed by jagged cliffs and mountains capped with a bank of cloud. The foreground of this picture was inexpressibly sweet, wellnigh idyllic, with its scents and delicate melancholy; but the distant view verged on the tragical and forced the onlooker to recall how in far-off days the great choruses of the poets had filled the air and delighted the ears of the thousands who occupied the serried rows of the amphitheatre.

Each member of the little company from the yacht had sat down where chance had offered a convenient resting place. No one spoke. All were busied with their private meditations. Franklin, carried away by the mighty rhythm of the view, peopled the scene with figures from his own dramas. Kyril, nearby, envisaged vast assemblies of workers, gathered together in this spot before they marched upon the town, not to be hewn mercilessly down a second time as they had been at the Winter Palace! Scherer, who had happened to take a lower step for his resting place, thought how splendid a thing it would be to have such an open-air theatre up north, where, of a Sunday, popular plays on the large scale might be played; later on one might perform Schiller; and then, in the end, have a try at producing Goethe's Iphigenia. But not the dramas of classical antiquity, they might not be understood. Wilhelm was congratulating himself that he had not brought his lute. "I could not have refrained from playing it, and that might not have suited the others' moods. I wonder if we are going back to the yacht for dinner? Those wisteria clusters look like grapes. It must be exquisite here in autumn..."

Eduard and Diana were sitting higher than the rest, but they were separated by the whole width of the round tower. The prince looked at her and thought: "Are we foredoomed to be separated? Still, we are sitting on the same step!"

Diana leaned her arm on a broken shaft, her head was bent back, her legs were crossed, and her eyes were fixed upon the sea as it struggled with the forces of light and shade. She had completely forgotten the friends around her.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Here's a revised sketch of the thing. Kraus has just sent it. You'll be able to judge from a glance at it whether you are mistaken or not."

Scherer, who was pacing the deck with Diana, stopped in his walk to extract a sheet of paper from a yellow folder. The wind caught the sheet and wrestled for its possession, but Scherer took refuge behind a screen where Diana rejoined him. Each held a corner of the refractory paper in order the better to study it.

"The red lines indicate the numbers of the first-rate hotels throughout Germany, don't they?"

"Yes. And the blue the bigger clubs. They are used as yet only by the editorial staffs of newspapers, by ministers and stockbrokers, whose numbers are reckoned up in the yellow column. But the figures are grossly exaggerated. The small figures at the foot of the page indicate that the cost of the news service should be reduced by from ten to twenty per cent, if we are to get a decent dividend out of the concern."

He pocketed the document once more, and the two resumed their morning walk, still discussing business affairs as was their habit at this hour of the morning.

"That's all right, I quite understand. Wouldn't it be better to increase the rate of subscription than to lower the cost of production?"

"There's your English training peeping out," laughed Scherer. "A club or hotel in Germany would far rather pay twelve hundred marks for a glass-doored cupboard wherein it could store all the news of the world to be gaped at by every passer-by; they would sooner expend thousands in subscriptions to periodicals which they could file in ancient presses as if they were some rare plants, than subscribe liberally to such a news service as I propose, which is a much less tangible asset."

"I've never heard any one rail against newspapers as you do," retorted Diana merrily. "There's nothing in the world you have your knife into so much!"

Scherer, who in this matter had very definite principles to guide him, answered half ironically:

"The newspaper is a thing that needs to be conquered."

"Thus spake Zarathustra," came a voice from the recesses of a deck chair. The two paused for a moment by the owner of the voice, who was engaged in a conversation with Kyril. Diana was used now to the prince's badinage, and she surmised that his sudden intrusion into an alien tête-à-tête must mean that he had come to a knotty point in his discussion with the Russian. She was, therefore, somewhat surprised when Kyril himself gave sanction to the prince's interpolation by saying:

"But not until the kings have spoken, Herr Scherer!"

"Oh, they never read the papers," answered Scherer good-humouredly, "and yet they are the very people who need them most!"

He turned on his heel to resume his walk, and as Diana prepared to follow, a gust of wind took her skirt and lifted it high. As she turned on herself to bring it to reason, Scherer noticed that the two young men, who had obviously been having an argument over contentious points, with equal seriousness were now regarding Diana's legs.

"They look as if they were faced with a very intricate problem," said Diana as she rejoined the financier.

Scherer, amused by the ambiguity of the words, which he knew to be spoken in perfect innocence, answered nothing. She was puzzled by his silence and his obvious amusement.

"You are smiling," she said. "Have I ... have you...?"

"No, no! Nothing," protested Scherer kindly, and he was delighted to see a blush mounting to her cheeks. "Their talk may have come to a dead point just as we came up."

Diana, patting her blouse and skirt with a very feminine gesture in case there should still be a certain disorder in her appearance, racked her brains to discover what he was hiding from her.

"Well now," said Scherer coming back to the point in a businesslike manner, "a news service for Germans must be run cheaply or not at all. Otherwise our worthy compatriots will reproach us, saying: the Wolff Information Bureau gave us just as good service for a quarter the price."

"Wolff's!" cried Diana, disdainfully.

"A poor, miserable tapeworm," rejoined Scherer zealously, "never stopping once it is set going, and provides the reader with the pleasure of seeing world history printed before his very eyes. A fantastical freak of a thing!"

Diana listened to his tirade with amusement. These rare moments of enthusiasm in a man who habitually assumed an attitude of reserve, were congenial to her. It pleased her to see his ripe experience irradiated with youthful ardour.

"I surrender," she said merrily, bringing her hand to the salute, and speaking with the smartness of a young midshipman on duty. "As soon as we are back in Berlin, I'll get to work on our budget and see whether I can't make a reduction in its figures of at least ten per cent a year."

"Ten to twenty."

"That means fifteen."

"Which is not quite the same thing, you know!"

They discussed the issue thus raised, and while they did so the figures they mentioned were wafted over to Franklin as he stood gazing seaward from the bows. Wilhelm was lounging in a deck chair by his side, blinking his eyes in the sunlight, wrapped in reverie. Diana, as she and Scherer turned, caught him saying:

"You are deceiving me. There aren't any dolphins in reality. This is the tenth day of our cruise and I haven't seen a sign of one yet!"

"They're always discussing percentage," muttered Franklin, who had not heard what Wilhelm was saying. He was invariably more of the poet and less of the diplomat when he had to do with men of the world. "It's amazing the way he parcels out the wealth of Mother Earth!"

Franklin seemed to have forgotten Wilhelm's presence, to have forgotten the ship, and above all to have forgotten his own position in the world, as he continued to utter his thoughts aloud oblivious of whether he was overheard or not.

"A woman of genius, daring to the verge of indiscretion.... A man, emerging from the mist, revealing himself for one minute of time, and realizing that he stands on the edge of an abyss..." He turned abruptly towards Wilhelm, leaning over him, his hands working as if he were moulding clay: "Can't you understand? The man of the world's clarity of vision dimmed by sensual charms which he, and he alone, must never, never allow himself to enjoy unless he breaks the laws of his own being."

He pulled himself together, turned away, and once more contemplated the expanse of waters.

Wilhelm had followed his discourse with composure. He did not budge from his chair, but continued to lie back among the comfortable cushions as he said:

"You've fallen into one of your mad moods again, I see. Hardly twenty minutes have passed by since you were informing me that there was nothing in the whole world to equal movement, motion. You even raised your voice to exclaim: 'Swimming, Wilhelm, swimming!' And the sailor over there, whose name is likewise Wilhelm, was preparing to come to our assistance with a life-belt. 'To swim with a comrade, breasting the current together, and to reach the goal before him. That's better by far than to sit shivering on the bank and make sketches of the swimmers.'"

"What the devil are you talking about?" interrupted Franklin crossly.

"I assure you," continued Wilhelm quietly, "that's exactly what you said. It was eleven o'clock precisely when you made your proclamation—I'd just looked at my watch—and it is not quite half-past now."

"There'll be no such embassies in the future," Kyril was saying at the other end of the vessel, just as Diana and Scherer turned in their walk. "Red plush. Gobelin tapestry, birthday celebrations, tea-parties as background to decisions concerning foreign policy, all will come to an end; and we'll have business conducted in offices, soberly decorated, with grey walls and carpets and easy chairs such as we affect in clubs and smoking rooms..."

"Are you so profoundly convinced of the ethical value of leather?" asked the prince mockingly. But Kyril continued unheeding:

"No conversation shall take place save in the presence of a dictaphone, set up somewhere conspicuous so that everyone can see it, a dictaphone which will reproduce the talk within the walls of parliament. Everything must be clear, unambiguous, sober. Business, not diplomacy!"

"Shall we be allowed to smoke cigarettes?"

"Each member of the community will eat and smoke according to individual preference. But the State will no longer foot the bill for what its representative sets before the representative of another State and his wife in order that through the exploitation of the indigestion of the former or the taste for good wines of the latter, he may elicit from his guests certain useful information."

"Rather a dreary world, Doctor. Doesn't it seem to you that such representation abroad is very similar to the interior functioning of a certain police-ridden State which is far from being to your taste?"

Kyril stood motionless, pipe in hand.

"The common things of everyday life will be irradiated with the Idea," he said at length.

"The Idea? Ah, yes, of course! But what about the persons who carry out the Idea?"

"They will devote themselves whole-heartedly to the carrying out of the Idea."

"And they'll all be in complete sympathy with it, eh? As a matter of principle, there will be no such thing as hatred in your community, I suppose? Les passions seront tout à fait nivelées?"

"Les passions," echoed Kyril gloomily, a savage tone coming into his voice, and Eduard, who had quite casually lapsed into the foreign idiom, was surprised at having inveigled the young man into speaking French, and equally surprised at the excellent way the words were pronounced. He also noticed that the thick, blond brows were drawn together, the eyes, which had been shining and happy, were clouded, and the whole man, hitherto so motionless, leaning against the rail, was stirring, was pulling himself away from the support, and was slowly turning round to contemplate upon the sea the yacht's wake.

Eduard noted all these things, and held his peace. It is always so, he mused. Whenever such ideologues leave the party rut, they invariably lapse into being dragons from a primitive age. Just as he begins to be interesting, he ceases to talk—much as I do myself!

That evening the prince stood with Diana, on the bridge. A fresh breeze had been blowing all day from the east, and the yacht was under sail. Now the air was very still and very warm. They were rounding Cape Matapan, and knew that they were in for a spell of balmy weather. Diana had thrown a white cape over her evening gown, and was wearing it toga fashion, like an Italian officer. She stood bare-headed just in front of Eduard, who was likewise wrapped in a cloak, and towering head and shoulders above her. From a distance, they might have been taken for one person, standing alone.

The night sky, clear as crystal, brilliant as it can only be in the south, was studded with stars. Diana did not speak. She looked this way and that, bending over the rail, gazing upward at the constellations which, as she picked them out, she named quietly, for her own gratification. Eduard pressed close against the rail so as not to hinder her in her movements, for, though she herself had invited him to come with her, she seemed to have forgotten his presence, and to be averse to being reminded that he was at her side. He was, therefore, taken unawares when she cried:

"There it is!"

"What?"

"The Scales. Don't you see? Over there!"

"Where?"

"There, just in line with the helmsman's cap is Lyra, and two spans away the four bright stars—over there! Do you see them now?"

He leaned forward to follow her indications, and as he did so, she placed her left hand on his shoulder. Eduard saw nothing, but he kept very still. He wanted to prolong this moment, to eke it out to the utmost. He wondered if he had better say that he saw the constellation, but that might put an end to her present position. Perhaps he had better ask her once more to point it out; but that might cause her to make some other movement. At last he felt that he dared not allow any more time to elapse before speaking, so he forced himself to say:

"Four stars, of course, yes, that's the Scales."

His tone affected Diana disagreeably; she made for the ladder, and climbed down before he had collected his wits sufficiently to give her a helping hand. But she knew the prince too well now to feel piqued; and he, though annoyed with himself, was determined not to spoil their stroll together. They walked forward in silence, and after a while he said:

"Is that your constellation?"

"A balance! Could one have a better guiding star?" She paused in her walk and leaned against the rail.

Again the prince was silent. She had opened her cloak in order to throw the end over her shoulder again for it had become dislodged, and as she did so the fragrance of her body and her gown was wafted to him on the night air, confusing his thoughts once more. Could this woman, speaking so calmly under the stars, be the one whose slim, boylike legs a wanton wind had displayed this same morning, whose sun-tanned neck had spoken to him of youth and vigour as the company had sat over dinner, and whose bronzed figure he had seen for one second of time when she had posed as the goddess of the chase?

Determined to come back to the present, he said:

"Someone was talking to me only this morning about balance in the government of a State, as if we need no longer reckon with the human, emotional factor. At last I asked him: 'And what about the passions?'

"La passione," Diana softly murmured, turning round to peer into the sea.

Eduard was taken aback by her choice of such romantic words in so romantic a tongue; he was no less struck by the similarity between Kyril's reaction and Diana's to his shaft. He was annoyed at finding any similarity between two such alien natures, and said with some asperity:

"Si, signorina! Or is the constellation to become obscured as soon as we are driven to do something ill-balanced?"

She looked over her shoulder, and asked coldly:

"Are you afraid of ill-balanced things?"

He did not yield ground under her gaze, and retorted:

"You yourself chose the Scales as your guiding star, not I!"

"My life," she continued in a gentler voice, "has been one long stare at that constellation—and yet, judging by the course my life has hitherto taken, one would think that Mars had been my guiding star."

She raised her head as she spoke, and looked up as if seeking the planet she had just named. He gazed at her in speechless devotion, and when she, calmed by her own words, rested her arms once more on the rail and cast her eyes upon the water, he said tranquilly:

"And yet your life seems to me, as I contemplate it from afar, to have been constructive rather than destructive."

She was wholly reconciled by his words, and said softly:

"Mars lives within me, Prince, as he lives within us all."

Eduard watched her as, her arms wrapped in her cloak, she leaned over the yacht's side. A tiny hem of her silk dress gleamed beneath the lower edge of her cloak. He took in every detail, as he mused: "In an hour's time she will be alone, looking into the small, triangular glass I caught a glimpse of as I passed by her open door yesterday..." At length he said, almost in a whisper:

"Mars and the Scales. Maybe they are both alternatively the guiding stars of wanderers?"

Diana raised her eyes to his, as she said:

"And yet one of them guides the steadfast, while the other illumines the path of the warrior. Surely of all the company aboard the 'Excelsior,' you are the one who should choose the Scales for your emblem."

He felt that he had been dissected, that the words were hemming him in, and was about to answer somewhat warmly, when the sound of a lute broke upon the stillness of the night. Diana's harshness evaporated as the strains were carried towards her, and she said, smiling happily:

"Listen! Wilhelm is going to sing," and she began to hum the song.

Quant' é bella giovinezza
mà si fugge tuttavia...

With the sprightliness of a girl of seventeen, and as unwittingly as a princess, she slipped her hand through Eduard's arm, and rejoined the circle of her friends.

CHAPTER FIVE

A solitary gull followed the yacht. How had it got separated from its fellows? Had its flight been hindered by some accident? From what far-off island had it come, towards what shore was it now winging its way? It hovered above the masthead. Minutes went by. Then suddenly it swooped, making straight for the sea. Was it pouncing upon its prey?

"A lonesome creature," mused Diana, who had spent the whole afternoon on deck, reclining in a chair, alone, motionless, brooding. "Freedom! There is more freedom around that bird than there is around the leopard in the African desert or the sable in the northern wilds. There are sportsmen it is true—but sportsmen can do no more than kill. They do not trap, and if they do, it is only to capture the young and immature or those which have allowed themselves to be hoaxed. Has a human being ever ventured to arrogate to himself so great an abundance of freedom as does this wild bird, winging its way through those vast solitudes? And I, shall I not be punished because of my bold determination to be free?

"Homeless as that bird, and to remain so, always... She flies through the infinite shining heavens, between sky and sea, and screams her joy towards the setting stars. Or has she a nest on a ledge of cliff in one of the islands, with chicks agog for her return? ... Home. Whenever we sail away from port, these five men, my companions, cannot tear their eyes away from the land, they gaze yearningly back at it as if they were leaving a mother behind, or some work they had created and loved. If I had ever known a mother, I might have been the creator of a work.... But it may be that, being a reincarnation of herself, I have never thought it worth while to seek her.... Perhaps my standard of perfection is too high for me ever to try to attain it.... And these men here, they are always building, they are hampered by innumerable veils, shackled by the multiplicity of the trivial happenings on dry land. Not one of them is self-sufficient enough to love the solitude of the sea.... Is pride taking its revenge on you, Diana? ... I am alone...."

She closed her eyes to the long shafts of sunlight coming from a rift in the cloud-bank that lay over the western horizon. Her other senses were rendered more acute by the exclusion of the sense of sight, and the hum of the yacht's engines smote upon her ears. Her own pulse seemed to accommodate its rhythm to that of the engines; she became aware of the smell of brine and paint, of damp linen and lacquer, of scrubbing soap and train oil; and now came salt and spindrift from the waves, she tasted the bitterness on her lips, it clung to her cheeks, and the crystals dried upon her hair. For a while she lay, absorbing these delights of seafaring life through her ears and nose and tongue and skin and hair. With her eyes still closed, she drank in the elements around her, as she had occasionally drunk in her loves, and had she found herself in a man's arms on opening her eyes she would have felt no surprise whatever.

"The waters are dancing to the northward," mused Diana; "blue and gold eddies dimple and smile round a thousand bays because the wind is blowing softly from the south and ruffles the sea. Yet all the while, deep down under the surface, the great currents flow on, cold or hot, violet or green, obeying the uncoded laws of their existence, remote from the winds whose influence they never feel, and whose..."

Suddenly Diana's attention was attracted by a strange apparition just in front of the ship's nose, a dark wave as it were of black satin, thrusting up through the pellucid water: a dolphin! She sat upright, straining eagerly forward, gripping the arms of her chair, her feet planted firmly before her, her eyes, so recently closed or veiled in dreams, alight with curiosity, lending intensity to her whole attitude.

"How happy they are, rolling and somersaulting more full of joy than the dumb fishes. When we were in Ischia, Rafaello told me they responded to whistling, that they draw near, attracted by the sound, and then compete with each other in leaping and racing."

She sprang from her chair and, leaning over the rail, started to whistle, shrilly and loud, like a calling bird of prey. More and ever more shining black bodies rose to the surface, disappeared, popped up again, looking as if their backs were curving knives. On they went, playing in front of the yacht as she cut her way through the waters.

"Whistle and I'll come to ye," said Eduard coming up softly behind her. Diana barely gave him a nod, so delighted was she in watching the antics of the dolphins. She called out laughingly:

"Wilhelm ought to be here! He'd see Aries riding on their backs!"

"The modern Orpheus is having his tea, and my unmusical lips offer their services as substitute," whereupon he, too, started to whistle.

"On my father's table there was a—— Oh look! There's another—and another." She stretched her arms out over the rail jubilantly.

"What was on your father's table?"

"A tiny figure of Aphrodite, and there was a dolphin at her feet."

She spoke loudly in her excitement. Then, suddenly modifying her voice, she added quietly:

"And when one day I asked him the reason he said: 'Well you know, Diana,' and he had a wonderful way of giving full value to the vowels in my name, 'they both emerged from the sea.' That's all he said—and now, there they are!"

"Both?"

"All of them," avoiding the net of questions he was trying to entangle her in.

The wind now took control of the evening, its deep organ tones filling the air, scattering in one gust the play of light and shade, the fishes, and the thoughts of Diana and her friend. The sun, as it sank behind a menacing bank of clouds, sent its rays up into the zenith in a final effort to assert its power, and thereby converted the sky into one huge opal in a twilight of milky blue.

"We are already sinking into a dead world, while up there all is bright serenity," said Diana softly, her mood in tune with the hour.

Again the sun's disk broke through a rift in the clouds.

"When a king lies dying, the meanest of his subjects can gaze into his eyes," murmured Eduard misanthropically, turning away from the west as if he wished to avoid witnessing the end.

"But this king rises again and again," said Diana.

Giorgino came along to haul down the flag. It still fluttered in the breeze as it ran down the yard, but on touching the deck it suddenly lay flat and motionless. Eduard lifted his cap abruptly, his face darkening.

"So you still pay homage to a linen rag?" a voice broke in on the silence, and Kyril stepped out of the cabin where he had been passing the afternoon over his books.

Eduard was the only passenger aboard who held to this ceremony. But he felt a certain embarrassment in its performance and usually took care to be alone. Now he stood there, not knowing what to do, completely nonplussed, for he dared not raise his voice in derision, and equally dared not, in view of the freedom he encouraged among his companions, enter a protest. Diana guessed his dilemma, and came to his aid, saying earnestly:

"The prince is saluting a thing in the death-throes."

Eduard's heart went out to her. The moment after she had spoken the words, he would have liked to fall at her feet in gratitude. Of course he did no such thing, but firmly stood his ground, and only a slight twitching at the corner of his mouth betrayed how deeply the Russian's words had piqued him. Kyril was not slow to perceive the effect his remark had had. He pulled himself together and said ambiguously, taking his pipe from between his lips and bringing his hand to the salute:

"Yes, Your Highness, a thing in the death-throes."

Eduard turned towards the speaker, likewise saluted, and said laconically:

"Nothing to worry about, Doctor Sergievitch. Black and white are the colours of Prussia. Red is for the Internationale. Maybe I was paying reverence to all three."

CHAPTER SIX

The "Excelsior," the graceful vessel that had been steaming on her way, a long streamer of smoke flying backward from the funnel like the scarf of a woman hastening to the tryst, had suffered a change in the course of the night, and was now a sailing ship under full canvas before a fresh north-westerly wind. When the company came on deck, everyone was surprised and delighted at the transformation. Six pairs of eyes were cast up towards the bellying sails. Questions rained upon the crew, who were hard put to it to find satisfactory answers; and if any of the passengers were in a mood to air their knowledge of such matters, they very soon proved themselves ignoramuses who had merely gleaned a little untrustworthy information from books. Scherer, who had made himself so expert in the running of his own machines, and turbines, and lighting, and what not in his industrial undertakings, that he could make a repair when needed with his own hands, felt completely at fault where a sailing yacht was concerned. He got the captain to take him round, to show him this and explain him that, and his scientifically trained mind very quickly grasped the most intricate details of stress and strain, of cordage and canvas and yard.

At the outset, Franklin had accompanied the two on their round, listening to the captain's lesson in sailcraft. But soon he ceased to hear and became absorbed in contemplative reverie, as was his wont when his fellow mortals were experiencing some new sensation. He loved to watch their reactions to hitherto unknown phenomena. So now, he soon saw nothing else but the voyager and the ship-owner into whom Scherer for the nonce was metamorphosed; he envisaged the two personalities as separate entities; the former gesticulating to make himself the better understood, the latter, hands thrust deep into his pockets, putting his mind in motion to grasp the unknown terminology and to memorize it methodically.

Eduard, meanwhile, found himself near the ratlines with Wilhelm at his side. A young fellow was aloft trying to catch a rope that had worked loose and was dangling and swinging in the breeze. But neither from above nor from below could the sailor reach the refractory piece of cordage.

"Try from above," yelled the mate from the deck, "from above."

But the youngster tried in vain.

"Is that Giorgino?" asked the prince.

"How can I tell what the young idiot's name is? I'd like to know where the devil the captain could have found such a booby. He's hard put to it to wash the dishes properly, and now he's suddenly expected to do the work of a sailor!"

The prince, tickled at this summary of the lad's career, laughed, and called up to him:

"Tira quell' altera corda!"

Thereupon Giorgino started pulling on a cord as if in response to the order. But his action proved hopelessly wrong, and the sail was put out of gear. The mate swore and raged. Wilhelm roared with laughter, while the mate glared at him ferociously. Then the young poet, having divested himself of his jacket, began to climb the ratlines. Eduard pulled him back, for he knew that only those with a very steady head could venture up into those swaying, airy altitudes.

Kyril meanwhile had joined the group. He quietly laid aside his coat and, without awaiting the mate's orders, called his instructions up to the boy. He spoke in Italian and Giorgino promptly responded by clambering down to one of the yards while the Russian mounted to replace him. Kyril's longer arm was able to reach the offending bit of rope. He drew it in and attached it where it belonged, adjusted the flapping sail so that soon it was again catching the wind, and then descended from his perch.

The mate had done nothing to hinder him in his operations, for he realized that he had to do with a man who knew what was amiss. He growled his satisfaction, hustled the youngster out of his path, and, before Kyril had stepped down on to the deck, said to the two others:

"Not so bad, not so bad! The young man must have had some seafaring experience!"

Diana, who had just come up, overheard his words and looked inquiringly at the prince and then at the mate. But since neither seemed inclined to enlighten her, Wilhelm constituted himself her informant and pointed slyly up into the rigging. Someone was coming towards her from aloft. It could not be a member of the crew because the clothing was not that of a sailor. But she soon recognized the figure as that of her Russian fellow traveller. She followed the movement of his feet as they sought the rungs of the swaying ladder, was tempted to help him by calling: "to right," or "to left." Then she realized that she was looking at a man accustomed to climbing in the rigging. In silence, the little group followed Kyril's descent.

One final spring brought the Russian on to the deck again. Unabashed, he put order into his clothing, smoothed his trousers, tucked his shirt in, adjusted his belt. Diana watched him, herself unobserved. Not one of his movements escaped her. She had seldom been given an opportunity of observing a man, unaware of feminine scrutiny, attending to his physical comfort. Suddenly the vision of other manly forms she had known rose before her eyes. She saw them on horseback, or swimming, or rowing, or doing gymnastics, as she had seen them in the flesh at music halls or while engaged in sport. Simultaneously the slender body of the major she had once known, passed by; then that of a Pole as shapely as a young god of classical antiquity, to whom she had given her love solely in order to feast her eyes upon his physical beauty. And when the young Russian, pushing the sail aside, suddenly became aware of her observation and raised his cap from his ruffled hair, she said judiciously to herself:

"A very good figure indeed!"

The prince, who had also come forward, said:

"Dr. Sergievitch has it in mind to charter a vessel on his own account."

And Wilhelm, full of awed surprise, added:

"Oh, but surely you could be a captain on your own account, couldn't you?"

"Awfully sorry to be so untidy," apologized Kyril running his fingers through his rumpled hair and putting on his coat which Wilhelm respectfully held out for him. "I did not know that you... Besides, I'm all out of practice."

"How long ago?" asked Diana.

"Eighteen months."

"Regatta?"

"No, escaping."

Kyril answered these questions with a kind of ardent coldness, the tone he invariably assumed when he was asked for what he considered useless information. Eduard felt somewhat abashed, and looked to Diana to help him out of his perplexity. She did not respond at all to his appeal; indeed, it pleased her completely to ignore his presence. The one word "escaping" had gripped her, had touched a chord of sympathy in her heart. And while Wilhelm continued to stare open-mouthed at the amazing stranger, Diana rapidly ran through her mind the possible course of Kyril's life history, about which none of those aboard knew anything other than that Sergievitch had been exiled to Siberia.

"Ah? Then you escaped via Vladivostok?"

"On an American sailing vessel."

"Passport under a false name?"

"Of course. No money."

"Many weeks?"

"A good many."

"As foremast hand? My word!"

Wilhelm's astonishment waxed with every answer. Eduard had ears for Diana's questions alone, his attention was riveted on the manner of her asking. The economy of words between the two, the precision of question and answer, was demonstration enough that the man and the woman had been through experiences of a kindred nature. He was reminded of the curt manner of speech among apaches, artists, craftsmen; and suddenly it was borne in upon him that these two alien beings were intimately bound together by the ties of an adventurous life.

The breakfast gong broke up the group, Kyril walking away with Diana, and Wilhelm with Eduard bringing up the rear.

"Do you think he ever feels giddy?" asked Wilhelm in an awed voice.

"He climbs with great assurance," said Eduard vaguely, not wishing to have his thoughts disturbed.

Prince Eduard, as far as he was able, spent the rest of the day alone. He was trying in vain to recapture the strange and rare simplicity of that morning dialogue; and every time he caught sight of Kyril or of Diana, they seemed to be getting farther and farther away from the spheres he knew.

The Russian, too, was in no mood for any company but his own. He stood in the stern, gazing at the ship's wake, as if he saw therein a symbol of a world that was being left behind. He had been silently and yet mistrustfully drawing nearer to Diana, and now of a sudden a bridge had been thrown from either shore across the abyss which separated them. For just as Eduard's elegance and conversational powers were for ever rubbing him up the wrong way, so this woman's every gesture, so captivating in Eduard's eyes, was repellent and strange to him.

Diana spent the whole morning with Scherer; and the rest of the day, till sunset, she passed by herself. Now she lay in her deck chair, an unread book on her lap, dreaming, forgetful of the flight of time. Kyril found her thus alone, and made up his mind to have a talk with her, a thing he had hitherto been careful to avoid.

"What are you reading?" he asked without preface, for he was genuinely curious to know.

She roused herself at the sound of his rich baritone voice, looked up, and saw him leaning against the rail in the same blue suit he had been wearing in the morning.

"I'm not reading at all," she answered, closing the volume. "It's a collection of Swinburne's poems, poems of the sea among others. But today the sea is not as Swinburne saw it, so I have not been reading them."

"Does Herr Scherer like such things, too?"

She smiled.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because you work with him, help him in his journalistic work. What do you do it for, Fräulein de Wassilko?"

To Diana it was as if a sluice-gate had been opened in her heart, and the waters were rushing down into a huge basin, flooding over, and filling a second. Her name falling naked and cold from these Russian lips, here, in the midst of a southern sea, was a summons to her, warning her to steel herself, to buckle on her armour for the encounter. She sat up very straight as she answered:

"Because I have to earn my living, Dr. Sergievitch."

"For the sake of money?"

"Is that anything to be ashamed of?"

"A poor sort of aim in life!"

"But suppose it is only a means?"

"Then I should ask you to what end."

Diana became more reserved, and, used to make what capital she could out of those who questioned her by countering their questions with questions of her own, she inquired:

"Are means and end one and the same thing to you?"

His mouth twitched. He raised his voice, saying almost angrily:

"Always."

Then in a quieter tone he added:

"I serve an idea, and live by the party which serves the same idea."

She was taken aback by the precision and clarity of his words. Still, not wishing him to think she agreed with what he said, she asked:

"Has it always been so?"

"This ten years past."

"No other thought but the revolution?"

"And its consequences. Revolution is no more than a means."

She gazed up at him in silence. "Yes," she thought, "he has fine features still. Soon fanaticism will set its mark upon his face." Her fingers closed on her book and it made her feel that it at least portrayed a better world. She rose to her feet as she said softly:

"May you live to see your hopes fulfilled!"

"That's of no consequence," he cried, stepping up nearer to her. "Maybe it is only our children's children who are destined to see that future day."

The slightly ambiguous tone in which he had, all unawares, pronounced the word "our," offended Diana anew. She stepped back a pace and said:

"At any rate you want someone of your own blood to see that day."

Her eyes challenged his, and suddenly he saw nothing but the woman in her, standing as he had seen her once before, on the night she had posed as Atalanta. Thoughts chased one another through his brain as he asked:

"Why don't you, too, serve an idea?"

"You mean your own ideas, I suppose?"

"There does not appear to be any sense in your present activities. You don't seem to me to wish either to seduce or to shine or to climb or to bear children as other beautiful women do."

He spoke so coldly that any suggestion of flattery was excluded from his words. Her answer was as cool and collected:

"And do you recognize no other aims in life?"

He was silent, and she turned away, leaning over the rail and gazing down at the sea, now glowing in the evening splendour. "And he sees nothing of all this," thought Diana, "or, if he does, he despises it."

She straightened, and walked away towards her cabin; as she went, the sound of flapping sail and swaying ropes smote on her ears. Looking up into the ordered wilderness of shroud and canvas and masts she asked irrelevantly:

"Was it a fishing boat in which you escaped?"

"An old tub of a thing."

"Carrying a lot of canvas?"

"Aye."

"Bad crossing?"

"March."

"And before that—how did you get through Siberia?"

"Reindeer sledge."

"Is it true that they can go twenty-four hours in the traces without feeding?"

"Twenty hours, and sometimes even more. At every halt they snuggle down close to one another and lick snow. On arrival at a settlement, a native will lead them to a place where Iceland moss grows. Then they'll dig themselves in and eat their fill."

They had reached the companion ladder as he spoke. He was about to say something more, when a tall figure emerged from below and started to climb the steps. It was the prince, who had already changed for the evening.

"They look like two conspirators," he thought as he looked up and saw the pair silhouetted against the sky.

"He looks like a prince," thought Kyril, a feeling of hostility leaping up within him as Eduard's white shirtfront gleamed from the darkness below.

"Hello! Dressed already?" cried Diana as if suddenly aroused from sleep.

"On board H.M.S. 'Excelsior,' supper is served at seven—no frills."

"And we were in Siberia," laughed Diana, disappearing into her cabin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Expectant, filled with that insatiable hunger which persons travelling by sea attribute to the tonic action of the salt-laden air, Scherer, Eduard, and Franklin were standing at the dining-room door, discussing the weather while awaiting the arrival of the rest of the company. Meals were served punctually aboard the "Excelsior," and Diana, as the only lady present, was especially careful as a rule to avoid being late. Eduard, who alone knew why she was not ready, held his tongue, so as not to have to tell the others that he had discovered her at so late an hour still in conversation with the Russian. It was difficult to decide what motive was uppermost in the prince's thoughts as he made up his mind to keep silence in the matter. He may have merely wished to avoid the risk of making a mountain out of a molehill by suggesting there was anything as yet between Kyril and Diana. Such vague surmises were apt, within the narrow confines of a ship at sea, to assume undue proportions. Or could it be that he, a prince, was suddenly aware that the revolutionist might be a rival for the lady's favour?

The conversation had petered out, and Franklin, going over to consult the chronometer, saw that it was already twenty minutes past the hour. Scherer pulled his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, slowly wound it up, and replaced it without looking to see what time it was. Eduard, observing the movements of the other two, shook his shirt cuff free of his left wrist and looked down at the dial. At that moment, Wilhelm, who had been standing a little apart and contemplating the sea from the ship's side, suddenly broke in upon the silence.

"It's all illuminated! The foam is all alight!"

The other three rejoined him, to watch the phosphorescent light on the water. Each wave as it rose towards the vessel seemed to be lit from beneath.

"Murmuring pearls," whispered Franklin.

"How wonderfully phosphorescent these tiny creatures are, to be sure," said Scherer, thoroughly interested.

"Like the Bundesrat during the speech from the throne," came from the prince.

Wilhelm who had hitherto been absorbed in his contemplation, now looked up, and asked:

"Oh, do they wear such shining robes on State occasions?"

"Dresses of State," answered the prince, and his tone implied a strange mixture of respect and mockery. "Furbelows from Haroun-al-Rashid's epoch, as our Russian comrade would say."

"It reminds me of Phœnician glass," said Diana, who had, unnoticed, joined the group. Everyone turned as she spoke, and, since there seemed to her an element of reproof in her friends' aspect, she added: "Perhaps you'll be sending me back to my cabin in disgrace, for I see it has gone the half hour and I have no excuse ready."

"I'm awfully sorry to be so late," said Kyril, dashing up from below. But his excuses sounded dull and inadequate after Diana's dainty little thrust.

Franklin thought: "A bassoon after the flute! How lovely her voice is."

"You've mentioned those glasses before," said Scherer as he made way to allow Diana to pass. "Did you not tell me your father had unearthed them somewhere?"

"Yes, and they lighted up the whole of my childhood with their opalescent spots, covered, as it were, by a film of lava."

By the time she had finished speaking, she had reached her end of the table, and, making a half turn, she stood poised for a moment with her bare arms slightly raised.

"She is certainly very beautiful," thought the Russian. "But she only cares for admiration and adventure; not an idea in her head. She's a lost soul."

"I'd always have her dress stunningly in the evening," said Scherer to himself. "And in the daytime she should be dressed as a girl."

"What an intricate gown," said Eduard, aloud. "It must be the butterfly that's holding it all together."

And Wilhelm exclaimed:

"Oh, what a rare specimen! Where was it caught, and by whom?"

He pushed back his chair, and, with the simplicity of a child, went over to where Diana sat, in order to get a closer view of the exquisite thing as it nestled in the soft folds of her low-cut gown. And it was only now, at such proximity, that he realized how low indeed the neck was cut. His young, inexperienced eyes lingered on Diana's bosom, his senses became confused with the delicate aroma that rose from her person, he forgot the passage of time. Four pairs of eyes, glaring their protest and reproof, were fixed questioningly upon Wilhelm, each man wondering when the indiscreet inspection would come to an end. Diana, who had turned towards Wilhelm to show him the ornament, did not see the men's expression, but she sensed disapproval in the air by the silence that had fallen on the company. She was rather amused by the little scene, and allowed half a minute to go by before turning away and saying:

"Your soup will be cold, Wilhelm, and it's turtle soup today, you know, tortoise, the sort upon which an elephant can stand, a Buddha sitting on its back."

Wilhelm took a deep breath, and, as he hastened back to his place, he was heard murmuring: "Marvellous!" but whether he was referring to the turtle, or to the butterfly, or to Diana's bosom, not one of the four men could decide.

Conversation now became general. There was talk about sacred rites among the Hindus; Scherer gave an account of the tortoise-shell mausoleum in Kandy, and told how he had hurriedly left the place and gone back to Colombo, because a company of English snobs had taken possession of the little lake, and how relieved he felt when he got back to the vision of the infinite sea. Diana had some interesting things to say concerning the customs in Upper Egypt, and about camel-riding, and her first experience of sea-sickness as she crouched between the animal's humps. Franklin spoke of the serpentine movements of the elephant's trunk, and went on to refer to the anomalous aspect of this strange creature as seen amid the haunts of men. Finally he opened a discussion on the price of ivory, which seemed greatly to interest Scherer. "Yes," he was saying, "I remember my awe when the first tusk was put in my hand and how I turned to the skinny little hunter to say that such a beautiful thing was certainly worth all the perils of the chase. To which he answered: 'Of course you know that out of one tusk six billiard balls can be made.''

"All my sympathies go to the elephant," exclaimed Kyril, rousing himself from his silence. "The futile uses to which such fine things and so much labour are put..."

"Quite right! Quite right!" exclaimed Eduard. "I'm wholeheartedly a partisan of the pachyderms. All politicians should belong to that race, and to that race alone!"

"It's a pity you speak ironically," retorted Kyril, "for what you say happens to be true."

The prince's lips twitched, then he said:

"By the time the present generation of diplomats, the spiders, have died out, I fear the elephants will have been exterminated by the Austrian consular service under the leadership of Dr. Franklin as head huntsman! Whom shall we then have left to send as ambassador to St. Petersburg, I should like to know?"

"Reynard the Fox," laughed Scherer.

"On the contrary," said Eduard, "the revolutionists here wish it might be the lamb!"

"Neither will do," put in Kyril gravely, "but, rather, Herr Scherer himself—on the understanding of course that he has accepted our ideas in their entirety."

Although Scherer's acceptance of these ideas was only partial and, even then, mainly theoretical, he felt more flattered by the Russian's implied appreciation than he would have been by an official summons to such a post. Nevertheless, he did not betray his feelings, merely answering:

"I'm no more than a business man. You'd better try to convince the prince, so that in the future when he is appointed to some foreign post, he may work hand in hand with us, democratically. Advanced ideas coming from abroad have a much better chance of acceptance at home, you know!"

"Compromise," muttered Kyril disdainfully. "Parson Brand says: 'All or nothing!'"

Since Scherer had spoken, the prince had kept his eyes on the Russian, considering him attentively. Again tonight he reacted as he had always reacted to similar talks during the past weeks, when this slogan had been voiced, and it seemed to him that the Russian's fanaticism was a serious obstacle to fulfilment. He intervened by saying:

"Would you appoint Ibsen's Brand as chargé d'affaires in Christiania?"

"He'd be a trifle old for the job, I fear," answered Kyril.

"You would, then, introduce an age-limit for diplomats? Treat them as the Fiji Islanders treat their old folk? At sixty lead them on to the rostrum whence, if they proved no longer capable of maintaining their equilibrium, they would fall to the ground!"

"The Russians are right," cried Franklin enthusiastically; "young people are better for such posts."

"Bravo! I think so too," exclaimed Wilhelm, the youngest of the party, who, as usual, had been silently and reverently watching the others while they talked.

For the time being, the problem was settled in a chorus of merry laughter, which suddenly ceased when Scherer rose as if to deliver a formal speech.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, smiling round the circle. "I have no intention of introducing etiquette of any sort on board the 'Excelsior,' but, since we have been talking of diplomats and of youth, I should like us all to give our good wishes to one among us who, this day, has added another year to the tale of his young decades—I drink to the health of our friend and my guest, His Highness, Prince Eduard!"

The men had risen. Clicking his heels together and bowing ceremoniously, the prince touched glasses with his host. Then he turned to Diana and found her gazing up at him, her eyes dimmed with tears. Memories of another dinner party crowded upon him. It had been in the Balkans; she had had a lover at the time; he himself had been filled with envy. Now, as he bent towards her, Eduard became poignantly aware of the caresses the dead man must have given to the Diana-like body before him, a body which he had glimpsed for a fleeting moment from a distant vantage point in a public gathering. The lure of the woman was strong upon him.

All had by now clinked glasses and had drunk the toast. There followed an awkward pause, so usual in the train of such ceremonies. Then Wilhelm's voice broke in on the silence.

"I thought something must be up directly I saw champagne glasses on the table!"

"So we have an Almanach de Gotha on board the man-of-war," said Eduard, turning to Scherer.

"You'll have to own up to your age now," cried Kyril with unwonted eagerness.

Whereat Diana thought: "Does he hope to be the younger of the two?" And, as if to shield the prince, she said hastily to Kyril: "You, too, will have to make the same confession."

"After His Highness!"

"Guess," said Eduard turning to Diana.

She hesitated.

"According to the Almanach, Prince Eduard is nine-and-twenty years of age," said Scherer, meaning to help the prince out of an embarrassing situation. "Kürschner, in which we'd be bound to find Dr. Sergievitch's name, is unfortunately not on board, and I'm afraid we'll have some difficulty in finding a copy among the Ionian Islands."

"Twenty-nine, likewise," Kyril informed them simply.

Diana, who was always responsive to the mystical in things, and endowed with a physical love of youth, felt moved and excited as she asked:

"Which of you is the younger?"

Her eyes travelled from one to the other.

Eduard and Kyril leaned across the table; they gave the impression of two wrestlers as each gazed in his opponent's eyes. Their companions were silent witnesses of this soundless duel. Kyril at this moment appeared to be endowed with superior strength, and seemed to be hiding something which his vis-à-vis was endeavouring to divine. A moment or two passed. Then Wilhelm's voice again broke the tension:

"They were born on the same day!" he cried exultantly.

"How do you know that?" retorted Kyril, his face darkening, his manner rough and imperious.

"I—I guessed it from the way you behaved," stammered Wilhelm, abashed.

"Is he right?" asked Diana eagerly, leaning forward in her turn.

"Is he right?" chimed in Franklin and Scherer simultaneously.

Kyril sat back in his chair, folded his table napkin, and answered gruffly:

"Yes, he's right."

Diana and Eduard drew themselves up, completely taken aback.

"Then we can seize the opportunity of wishing you many happy returns, too," said Scherer jocularly, hoping to relieve the tension.

"Not today," protested Kyril, "our Russian seventeenth of April does not fall due until your thirtieth."

"Still, you were born under the same star," said Diana.

"Star? A new kind of decoration," mocked Eduard, trying to conceal his excitement. "Do you know anything about such matters, my mystical foster-brother?"

"I don't believe in such things," answered Kyril.

Scherer laughed, and Diana, too, could not hide her mirth as she said merrily:

"You were both born in the constellation of the Ram."

"Hence these horns," commented Eduard.

"Wool," said Kyril.

"Maybe, likewise, the power of growth, a future vita nuova," put in Diana.

"Both of us—identical," said Kyril sullenly; like someone who disapproved of such pleasantries and felt drawn into retaliating in spite of his better judgment. "How will you, then, be able to tell us apart?"

"Your horoscopes will not be identical because the actual days of your birth differ. My father could tell you all that with precision. I don't know much about such things myself, or, at most, if you care to show me your palms...?"

Both men stretched out their left hands towards Diana who pushed her dessert plate aside. She drew the hands towards her, placed her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, then looked from one palm to the other while the company sat eagerly waiting for her to speak.

"How very different they are," she murmured after a while, "so many lines crossing one another on your palm, Prince. Here, in the long line of your life, a kink as it were, cutting it short, after which the line becomes firmer. Head line good, decidedly domineering. The line of heart seems to peter out here, but it rises in the Jupiter mound."

"May I ask what course it follows?" queried the prince.

"It gives pride of place to love," answered Diana in a matter-of-fact voice. "The mound of Venus is, however, not so pronounced. The fingers are contemplative rather than grasping. But this middle one, so square when compared with the others, that brings us to the Scales, equilibrium." She had not touched him while thus telling his fortune. Now she looked him in the face as she added: "On the whole, a lucky hand, Prince."

He turned his hand over on the table, took hers in his and kissed it. Then:

"And now for my rival," he said.

Kyril meanwhile, had been sitting motionless, following every word, staring enviously at Eduard's long fingers. Before she began to speak, Diana looked up into the Russian's face and found his eyes fixed inquiringly on her own.

"This hand," she began even more sententiously than heretofore, "has fewer lines. A wonderful line of fate. It rises here, below the line of life, and runs up in two great curves to join the lines of the head and the heart, straight up into the mound of Jupiter: and there is a star."

"What does the star signify?" asked Kyril, dully.

"A great career," answered Diana, so frigidly that Eduard felt uneasy at such a display of hostility. "But the line of life is not good at this point, it divides in two, very decidedly, and it is not long."

"How can you tell that?" queried Kyril harshly, bending forward so eagerly that his fair hair caressed her cheek. She did not draw back, but said calmly, pointing to the spot again:

"By this."

"That's all right. What else do you see?"

"The head line does not join the line of life. That betokens fanaticism. Mound of Venus, very strongly developed; line of heart, simple. The fingers are grasping fingers," she concluded, raising her head. "A square hand: more will than intelligence. Please forgive me, I'm keeping you all too long at table."

When, later, they sat in the smoking cabin over cigarettes and coffee, their wicker chairs drawn together in a circle, the conversation drifted from suggestion to sleep-walking and to premonitions of death. From time to time Wilhelm had dragged one or the other of the circle to the railing to look at the phosphorescence in the water. These ecstatic excursions had been interpolated into the general talk which see-sawed between acceptance and denial of extraordinary phenomena. Franklin could contemplate the cosmos only from the mystical view-point. Scherer, as a man of the world who had never wholly denied the possibility of abnormal happenings, endeavoured always to anchor himself on certainties, as the only safe harbourage. But despite his best endeavours the springs of conversation gradually dried up.

The prince and the Russian contributed nothing to the entertainment. The strange coincidence of their birthdates, separated merely by the vagaries of the calendar, the variations in their fortunes as read in the lines of their hands, the aura emanating from the clothing and the personality of the woman in their midst: all this, and more especially the strangely prophetic confirmation of her own consciousness, lay heavy upon the spirits of the two men, one of whom had been dancing attendance upon Diana for many months in spite of prejudices of race and rank, while the other held aloof from her, hostile and suspicious, and yet attracted to her in his own despite.

The young woman herself was under the spell of her own perceptions. She felt bemused. As always when things lying without the circle of the tangible sent a ray of light towards her like a beacon from a distant port, she seemed to be gathered up into the mysterious in a way that appeared to her almost offensive, so greatly did she revere her own aptitudes and so much did she hate to tamper with these secret forces of her being. In such moods the incentive which her essentially productive nature was in the habit of giving to those who came in contact with her, was stilled; it was as if she were tossed amid dark and gloomy waters, and thoughts knocked at her heart, thoughts which at other times she sought to handle collectedly.

She felt the warm night wind on her throat and arms; her hand moved slowly, as if half asleep, towards the butterfly on her bosom which, in rhythm with the rock crystal pendant, rose and fell with her breathing; her imagination, more alert now than her eyes which lay deep in the shadows, drank in the luminous movement of the waves, sensing their luminosity rather than perceiving it. And as she lay thus pensive and dreamy she felt acutely how alone she was, and how impossible it was for these friends and lovers around her to put an end to such solitude as hers.

Was such a thing desirable she asked herself. Could passion, once more aroused, be lovelier than the mute sympathy of air and sea and death and night and stars? She looked up, searching for the Scales, and became uneasy when she could not make out the constellation amid the clouds which delicately veiled the firmament.

Abruptly she got up, swept by the astonished Wilhelm whose eyes followed her movements inquisitively, and made for the bows. The waters were no longer aglow; the sky was partially overcast. She became conscious of her youth as the wind played around her shoulders, she saw the rise and fall of her breast beneath the diaphanous folds of her gown, she felt the sensual delight of the soft wrap covering her bare arms, and the dead butterfly adorning the low-cut neck of her dress seemed more brilliant and more alluring than the waves.

She threw back her shawl so that she might fully enjoy the warm caress of the wind. Was not all this the prelude to an embrace? Was she, a young, beautiful, and independent woman, to continue living, as she had lived for a year and more, like a cloistered nun?—— Why does he hesitate? Why does he not come, unannounced, tonight, appear suddenly in my cabin, this respectable, ardent cynic, and forget his habitual irony and decorum in the ecstasy of an endless night? Do I frighten the men who refrain from seizing me in the first hour of our acquaintance?

She returned to the circle of her friends, excused herself as she lightly shook each by the hand, and withdrew to her cabin. Hastily dismissing Mary, she took a seat in front of her threefold mirror and hearkened to the murmur of the waters beneath the port-hole. She pushed back the wrap from her shoulders, and, as if her own fingers were those of a lover beginning to unclothe his sweetheart, she started to unhook her gown. With a slow and voluptuous movement, she raised her arms above her head, so that the frail bodice slipped down to the broad waistband which she had loosened likewise. She pressed the hard crystal between her breasts and held the dead butterfly against her bosom. Her other arm was still upraised to frame her curly head. For a long time she sat there, gazing at herself in the mirror. Then she rose. With a single motion the dress and her underwear slid to her feet; then stepping free, as from a pupa-case, she again contemplated herself in the glass.

She found herself beautiful, and yet as she stretched out her arms in longing, she had no desire for the man who had been in her thoughts. What she desired now was love. The tones of Wilhelm's lute floated down to her, yearning and soft.

She clasped her strong hands together, and then pressed their palms against her body. Aghast, she let them fall to her side, her eyes darkened, for as she had watched the movements of her own hands her thoughts had flown to the huge fists of the Russian. She pulled on a nightgown, and slipped into her bunk. Soon she was wrapped in a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rattling of chains awoke Diana. She sprang out of bed, and as she opened the port-hole she saw land, flat stones lapped by gentle waves, a few bushes, the whole lit up with the first shafts of the rising sun. On deck she found there was little more to see, save a hillock, a sun-kissed beach, a few cottages, and a couple of dozen fisherfolk who had never seen any other vessel than their own cobles putting into the bay.

It was the island of Leucas that lay before them. Scherer had hunted out this little place, for his friends and he himself wished to avoid Corfu and considered Cephalonia too big. On this particular voyage they none of them wished to run up against acquaintances or strangers whom they might, as in a dream, talk with for one forenoon. Ithaca, which had been Scherer's first choice, had been turned down by the rest of the company. Even more than Syracuse did the place smack of archæological research.

"Good morning! Is this wild enough for you?" called Scherer from the other end of the deck, as Diana appeared up the companion. "The natives here don't even ask for harbour dues!"

"And they catch fish, and milk goats, and our Father who is in heaven provides for their needs," she called back.

"You've got out of bed in biblical vein," said Scherer as he shook hands.

"Say rather in a pagan mood. For this place is rich and lonesome, and within an hour the sun will be burning hot and we shall be walking upon Greek ivy."

"It was here that Dorpfeld sought Ithaca."

"I don't want to hear about that. Ithaca is where I choose it shall be!"

"You are talking like Franklin."

"For today, his way of speaking is the right one! Are we going ashore?"

Diana pointed to a boat that was drawn up alongside.

"Yes. And, I say, what about going really ashore?" retorted Scherer meaningly.

"What's your idea?" she asked.

"Well, since I've caught you alone thus early, why not go to Patras?"

They were standing near the gangway which was still shaking from the heavy tread of the captain who had just left the yacht to go ashore. Such a question, the proposal that they two should do something apart from the others, had never been mooted before. Both rather dreaded the possibility. Patras spelled Athens. Athens was full of certain joint memories that needed careful handling.

Diana said:

"Patras is hardly worth a visit, and it's too late in the year for Athens. Agreed? Besides one might get involved in the Balkan imbroglio and the yacht captured as a prize! Wouldn't you prefer sailing northward?"

"Really northward?" he asked with a smile, for he knew her weakness for Venice.

She laughed. Then tossing her head defiantly, she said:

"One should always avoid the scenes of former happenings, you know—especially if one holds the past in contempt."

Her words were only meant to express her vivid joy of the moment—like a bugle summoning up the morning. But for Scherer they seemed a disavowal of the past, knowing as he did her faith in the mutations of the moment. He looked at her steadily, as if to fix her words upon his retina. She returned his gaze unflinchingly, combative and audacious, until he lowered his eyes and continued unruffled:

"It's to be Venice, then; and after that we'll skirt the coast. Is that your idea? The plan suits me very well, for I should dearly like a chat with Ricci, who is doing propaganda in Italy on behalf of our views. I may learn something useful. If only our captain doesn't fall in love!"

"I'd willingly put temptation in his way for the sake of Venice," she laughed. "But I'm not his type."

"Highly improbable! What you really mean is that he is not a type that appeals to you."

"That's neither here nor there, if one has an end in view."

She spoke with the deliberate coldness she occasionally affected when she wished to mislead even those whom she most trusted.

Scherer did not answer. He was pondering her words. "An end in view? What would be the upshot?"

An hour later they were all being pulled ashore. The silence that brooded over the island, the absence of any sights, the speedy growth of the sun's power, and above all the estrangement which had arisen between Eduard and Kyril since the events of the previous evening, made the little company unusually taciturn. Scherer contemplated Diana from a new angle, and was absorbed in his own thoughts; Eduard did not wish to be with Diana while Kyril was about; Diana had no desire to speak to any one; even Franklin seemed strangely glum since last night.

Wilhelm, alone, was cheerful. He felt more at home on land than at sea, especially when the country was wild and the weather hot. He had been walking for some time at Diana's side, admiring the flowers, the hills, and the tide. Gradually he felt that he had experienced all this before; the landscape and, indeed, the whole excursion was familiar. Such a feeling of reliving past events was one this dreamy poet's nature was accustomed to, and he was never taken aback when things or persons unexpectedly appeared as old friends or as the realization of a dream. The party broke up into groups, rambling whithersoever fancy led: Wilhelm's mood became more and more joyous. He walked along at Diana's side, absorbed in his dreams, the incarnation of youth.

"There does not seem to be any way through up there," Scherer called after the pair.

"All the better," cried Diana, waving her hand. "We'll probably discover a temple!"

"As you will," shouted Scherer from below. "Only I beg you to be aboard again at one."

He invited the remainder of the little band to follow him along a more beaten path which wound away to the right, mounting the cliff, and overlooking the bay. Absentmindedly, the three men followed where Scherer led, not one of them much caring whither they went. Scherer proved right and Diana came to what she had hoped. The track vanished amid a tangle of broom, and she felt thoroughly in her element as she beat a passage for herself through the thicket, Wilhelm following in her wake. Now, at last, she could throw off the burden of thought with which she had been oppressed since her talk with Scherer early that morning.

The broom grew to a man's height in this spot, and its yellow plumes waved aloft in the golden light of the early day. At times the shrub attained the proportions of a tree, and scattered blossoms with profusion as if they were a tropical rain. It was difficult to find a foothold among the thick growth of ivy which covered the ground, a carpet of damp green flecked with the gold of fallen petals. Gnarled fig trees spread their heavy leafage abroad, while myrtles in full blossom formed cascades among the ivy-mantled crags. The prickly fronds of the cactus stuck their grey-green fingers in the air, and here and there one of the plants flaunted the beauty of red buds; violet agave flowers, like thorny fountains, inhaled the light and the warm sunshine with avidity, profiting by every instant of their short-lived glory to nourish the fruit of their blossoming time; and mother earth in her green gown, lying amid a welter of sword-shaped leaves, was already parched from the boiling noonday suns. From a medley of mosses and weeds the delicate stems of olive trees had sprung up, but, affrighted by the rough caresses of the sea winds, they had bowed their heads to earth again. In the general hum of insect and animal life, sounds differentiated themselves so that one could distinguish the rustle of lizards amid leaves, the slithery movement of unseen snakes avoiding the tread of a human foot and yet seemingly on the alert to follow the wayfarer; while, dominating all, came the deep bourdon of the humble bees, and the shrill chirp of the crickets. The hot air was heavy with the scent of honey and parched blossoms, and it was a labour to lift the foot to a higher level on the sweltering hill-side, where the tall, beaker-shaped ferns grew luxuriantly and the stiff stems of the orchis thrust their purple buds amid the green, where the cherry-laurel attained undreamed of heights, displaying its cool leaves to the ardent sun and reflecting the light in the thousand facets of its sombre depths.

Now the sea was again visible, spreading its calm and polished surface beneath the radiant sky, and Diana, catching sight of it, let herself slide to the ground amid the tangle of golden broom, and gazed her fill, breast high among the blossoms. She leaned upon her elbows, her chin cupped in her hands, her eyes fixed upon the distant blue, looking for all the world like a sentry awaiting the arrival of a ship. Thus she lay amid the yellow wilderness, a slender figure in her simple white frock, her wide-brimmed hat flung negligently at her side, absorbed in contemplation of the dazzling waters. Wilhelm, who had discarded his coat and his cap, sat at a little distance from her. He had followed her silently, using his stick and his hands to clear a path for himself. Occasionally he had sprung forward in advance of her, holding branches aside for her passage; then again he would fall to the rear, seeking an easier way.

"You are a shepherdess," said he, his head cocked to one side. "When you talk, I can hardly ever understand, since you are too clever for me. But as you are now, I can understand you very well, just as I used to understand my collie, who was stolen from me last autumn." He spoke very softly, a note of supplication in his voice.

"How gentle a tone, how mute and humble his affection," thought Diana, a smile hovering about her lips. "He hums like one of those great hairy bees, and he, too, is wishing to find honey."

"None of the other men are near," continued Wilhelm, cuddling down beside her, "and I feel sure you will allow me to kiss your hand—but I want to kiss it here, quite high up."

Diana laughed.

"You are but a shepherd lad," she said, "and I'll let you kiss me wherever you please."

Wilhelm bent forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Ah, Diana, you are a goddess taking your ease among the broom, and you think the shepherd does not recognize you for what you are. But he knows, he recognizes you," and he leaned over her as she lay.

"By what sign do you recognize me, Wilhelm?"

"By your knees," he said roguishly. "Atalanta did not wear stockings, you know!"

She pulled her skirt down.

"Did you like Atalanta?"

"So greatly that I could only gaze and gaze at her, and forget to fall in love with you."

"But I'm in love with you, Wilhelm!"

"Yes, I know; but I make very cautious advances as you see..."

He slipped his head on to her breast and caressed her knees.

"You are so gentle and so kindly, Wilhelm, and you taste like strawberries."

"You are the most beautiful of women, Diana, and Wilhelm is the happiest of mortals," and he quietly began to unfasten her dress....

They were startled from an infinitude of slumbrous joy by a sound of crackling nearby, and sprang apart with the frightened shock of lovers surprised by an alien third. But their alarm soon changed to laughter, for the intruder was only a he-goat who was no less startled at finding human stragglers in his haunts than they had been by his intrusion.

"The very creature himself," cried Diana, trying to seize the beast by the horns, "the Dionysian animal arousing us from a Pan-like lethargy. It is just as well that he invaded our sanctum, for otherwise we'd have overslept ourselves, been late for lunch, might even have been left behind and condemned for ever to live on Leucas isle!"

"Would that not have been paradise, indeed? What might I not achieve on Leucas, and you?"

She laughed, glancing up at him shyly from under her lids, as she said:

"I'd make myself a rough canoe..."

"To live in?"

She flung her arms about him and kissed him precipitately, laughing, and looking straight into his eyes.

"No, no! To sail in, to make for Corfu, under cover of night, while you were fast asleep in the cave of Telemachus. Once arrived at Corfu, I'd board a Lloyd steamer and voyage to Rio or to the moon."

Lighter of step than during the upward climb, fleeing from the heights, with the springy gait of a young shepherdess, Diana sped down the hillside, along the path they had beaten, humming softly to herself, until she reached the road and the shore.

The thoughts of the four men who had taken the easier way were concentrated on the person of Diana, during the time that she herself was living a genuine pastoral with the fifth.

As chance would have it, Eduard and Kyril walked side by side along the narrow path. They were silent. Their discovery had aroused in them a sense of hostility: the chance circumstances which had brought them together, seemed to them now, since the previous evening, to have imposed indissoluble and fateful ties; at the same time they both felt that henceforward Diana's relationship towards them would be a more intimate one. This conviction, for the first time, awakened a sense of unwarranted jealousy between the two men, a feeling which served in the case of each to accentuate their inclination towards the lady.

Kyril, however, with his instinctive and deliberately fostered animus against persons of high station, was inclined to rationalize his dislike for the man as contempt for the prince; whereas the latter, being set upon freeing himself from prejudice, did his utmost to draw a clear distinction between Kyril the rival and Kyril the man of ideas. It was Eduard, therefore, who broke the long silence.

"Rather an ominous field of research, astrology, don't you think, Doctor? If one believes in it, one has misgivings, and if one does not believe in it, one has nevertheless a feeling of resentment."

"Just as one has with human beings," responded Kyril gloomily, and with so audible a hint that he wished for the silence to continue, that the prince had plenty of time wherein to ruminate as to whether his neighbour believed in Diana or mistrusted her.

Scherer and Franklin, following the two younger men, had lapsed from the cheerful mood they had begun the day with. Now they were in a critical vein, from which neither the sunshine nor the sea could release them. They had lost their equanimity. Franklin, who had neither in earlier days nor now looked upon Diana with the eyes of a lover, had felt all along a little out of the picture as he watched her relations with the little circle of friends; since the events of last night, however, this vague feeling had become more tangible and he actually fancied she regarded him with contumely. It seemed to him that as poet and as one who prided himself on his knowledge of women, Diana might treat him in less daughterly a fashion, though it was, he had to admit, he himself who had encouraged this attitude in her. Now, quite suddenly, although in his quiet way he had enjoyed the voyage, learning and observing a new kind of life, he felt that what remained to him of youth had forcibly been wrenched away from him. Above all, his suspicions were aroused in regard to Scherer, whose relationship to Diana he had never wholly understood, and whose unwonted buoyancy this morning, in spite of the veneer of worldliness with which the financier masked his feelings, made Franklin more alert than usual.

For since Diana had spoken to him that morning Scherer had been the prey of an inner turmoil; possibilities of all kinds rose in his mind and were rejected, and it seemed to him that of all men Franklin was the one who could inform him as to certain happenings of her youth. Both men had feelers out; both were silent. Scherer waited till Franklin spoke.

"Have you known the young people long?"

"Those two young men ahead of us?" returned Scherer, deliberately misunderstanding Franklin's inquiry.

"Prince Eduard and the girl."

Franklin invariably referred to Diana thus.

"Oh," answered Scherer, "I met the prince in Turkey some time ago, but I did not make Fräulein de Wassilko's acquaintance till considerably later."

"Well, what about the prince? And suppose she takes up with the other...?"

Scherer assumed an air of absolute innocence.

"She must have had nothing but a platonic friendship with him in those days..."

"Platonic? Can she keep that up indefinitely?" exclaimed Franklin.

Scherer smiled.

"You've known her much longer than I have."

"Yes, long ago," rejoined Franklin in a tone of voice as if he were referring to a lost paradise. "The girl was observant and wise in those days. Now—she seems to me to be rather more a woman made for love."

"Since she has been living and working so closely in touch with me, I have found her far more maidenly than most people deem she could possibly be after such an adventure."

"Outwardly, perhaps, Herr Scherer. But inwardly? The cup is filled with blissful delight."

Franklin spoke the last words so loud, tossing them as it were into the air in his rhapsodic way, that they floated as far as Eduard's and Kyril's ears, whereupon the two young men simultaneously turned right about. Scherer, secretly amused, and emboldened by the turn the conversation had taken, wished to give the subject a more conventional twist, so he called to the two who had taken the lead on the path:

"You are missing the best sonnet Herr Franklin has ever composed. He wrote it years ago, taking our huntress as subject, when she was still a priestess."

"May one ask for it to be repeated?" asked Eduard, shaking off the spell that had held him, and falling into line with the elder couple.

"Herr Scherer is the poet this time," protested Franklin, "not I."

"Wares acquire value through rarity," said Eduard mockingly.

"Let's reckon up which of us has burned the greater number of poems, Prince," answered Scherer.

"I never burned any. The few I composed I made into paper boats and set them adrift on the pond in our park at home."

They were by now in merrier mood, and gave themselves up to good-humoured banter.

All, save the Russian, who continued on his way ahead of them, alone and sullen, in the scorching noontide glare.

An hour later the whole party met at lunch on the yacht. The Russian was very uneasy, and, since the prince felt himself to be in rather less serious plight, he assumed the task of finding out how Diana had spent the morning, a matter about which both men were extremely inquisitive.

"I expect you have added to your academic laurels this morning by increasing our knowledge of Homeric times—excavations I mean."

She was determined not to give herself away, so she took refuge in a lie.

"We really did discover something, Wilhelm and I. Higher up, soon after we had left you, a little farther inland, we came upon an olive tree under which, covered with ivy, we saw two stones. On closer inspection they proved to be pieces of a truncated column, late epoch, might even be Roman. But, Wilhelm, you know about these things better than I for you have studied the history of art."

Wilhelm was nonplussed, not so much by her powers of invention in order to shield their secret, as by the calm way in which she appealed to him.

"I think they are called Roman drums," he said diffidently, "but for the moment I want to give my attention to this excellent fish."

The Russian looked inquiringly at the speaker and then turned his eyes upon Diana, while the prince cast a meaning glance at Kyril and Scherer. Immediately Wilhelm, who had so recently deemed himself the favoured one in relation to this much-courted woman, assured that he alone of all on board had enjoyed the favour of her kisses, felt confused, and poverty stricken, and banished from her sight.

As the day was fading, Diana stood alone on the deck. The island was left far behind, its hills rising faint and dreamlike out of the sea. Diana gazed over the waters, absorbed in reverie. "The hand of the past has lain heavy upon me today," she mused. "Scherer, always on the lookout for a wife ... he's missed his chances ... Wilhelm finds a shepherdess ... as that handsome Scottish lad did so many years ago... And what of this taciturn, amiable prince? Is it not dangerous for us to let the favourable moment slip through our fingers? Why does he hesitate?"

A shadow climbed up the companion ladder. Wilhelm stood beside her.

"Diana," he whispered, a caressing note in his voice.

"Good evening," she answered in a louder key.

"Are you happy?"

"Is it not lovely?"

"What?" asked Wilhelm, at a loss to know what she was referring to.

"The sea! And that we are making for Venice!"

CHAPTER NINE

Eduard was sitting at one of the little marble tables in Florian's cafe on the Piazza. He had chosen a seat in the back row, and was fluttering the pages of an illustrated paper. A small glass of vermouth stood on the table beside him. He had at last discarded his yachting jacket and white shoes, and was now clad in a light-coloured summer suit, enjoying the luxury of being ashore again after so many days at sea.

Here, in Venice, ran his thoughts, I hope to stay two days; but I don't mean to spend them in hunting up art treasures. I'm going to be an ascetic so far as such things are concerned. I wonder why she left the yacht so early? The time had certainly come when it was expedient to land somewhere!

Pictures of the last few days aboard the "Excelsior" passed before his eyes. All the cheerfulness of the first days had vanished; monosyllabic courtesy prevailed; laughter had become a stranger. Wilhelm spent half the day in solitude, apart; his friends watched him sadly as he sat crouching on a chair in the bows; he avoided Diana and the prince, and chose only Franklin's company, conversing with him about camels, elephant hair, and crocodile tears. When he played the lute, he touched its strings lightly, making music for himself alone, and he never sang now. Of an evening, he would creep down to where Giorgino, the ship's boy, sat on the companion steps, and Scherer as he went by heard them practising the Venetian dialect together.

Scherer, too, was restless, and tried every expedient to relieve his boredom, asking the captain for information concerning winds and tides, fogs and lighthouses. Eduard and Kyril had long discussions about the people as against the individual, at the end of which, they would fetch the chess board and sit down to a game. Four or five hours would go by, and neither would raise his eyes from the board; and even during the meals that followed, they would remain pensive and chary of words.

Every one on board had become suspect to Kyril, his fundamental mistrust of Diana having now spread to her friends; hardly had the fences which separated the two begun to be pulled down, than he carefully set them up again. On the whole, this state of affairs fell in with Eduard's humour, for the prince's uneasiness concerning Diana's little excursion with Wilhelm had assuaged his jealousy of the Russian, and it seemed to him that the latter's comradely attitude towards Diana was a good one to imitate. Diana herself, since that strangely poignant evening, had been constrained to greater precaution, seeing that the prince held back; indeed, he seemed to be slipping away altogether, and he for his part made no effort to hold her. She could not guess what he had been cogitating for months; all she was aware of was that he revered her instead of taking possession of her; her spirit was rent by the conflict between pride and inclination, a conflict in which pride usually gained the upper hand, and thereby augmented the alienation.

Eduard got up, paid his score, and was making for the colonnade by the public library, wishing to mix with the crowd that always promenaded there towards noon, when he heard himself called by name. As he abruptly turned in response, his sleeve caught the change the waiter had deposited on the little table, and swept it to the ground. Four hands were instantly stretched out to pick the money from the ground, and as the prince, too, stooped in order to help, he saw himself confronted by Kyril and another young Russian. All three laughed as they rose and shook hands.

"That's the first time I've ever seen you groping for money, most honoured Samoroff," cried Eduard. "You always allow it to roll away unheeded at Monte Carlo. Thanks," he added as the coins were returned to his hand.

"It's only to show myself an arrant foe of capitalism in the eyes of my old friend Kyril. We were students together. Otherwise, quand il aura puissance dans l'Institut Smolny, he might put me under lock and key in the dungeons of the Peter-Paul fortress!"

The elegant young gentleman who spoke these words, partly in broken German and partly in excellent French, was nearly as tall as Eduard. His walking cane between his legs, he was preparing to take a seat, when Kyril said, addressing Eduard:

"Dimiter Alexandrovitch will excuse me, I feel sure. He'll be happier chatting with you about the gaming table than with me about Kropotkin whom he met in London and whose samovar is the only thing he has been able to understand! Good-bye, I have other matters in hand."

He then turned to his compatriot, and took leave of him in Russian. Soon he was lost in the crowd. Eduard realized how glad Kyril was at such an easy escape, and with what relish the young man had foisted a compatriot of birth and standing upon himself as one of similar lineage.

"How goes the world with you, cher Prince?" said Dimiter, slipping his hand lightly through Eduard's arm, and leading him towards the colonnade. He seemed a little distrait, but his manner was more cordial towards Eduard than the latter's towards him, for both by education and temperament the German was more reserved than the Russian globe-trotter. While they chatted, Dimiter sauntering easily along, Prince Eduard walking with greater decorum, the latter's mind was occupied with thoughts as to how he could get rid of his fortuitous companion. He feared Dimiter might invite him to lunch, that he, in turn, would have to reciprocate, and he was loath to bring this idler aboard Scherer's yacht since he, as member of the same caste, would thus render himself more or less responsible for the Russian. They had passed a few days together in Cannes a couple of years ago, empty days to be sure, but since Dimiter had just come from those parts, the conversation naturally turned to recollections of that time, whose charm was greatly exaggerated in retrospect by the Russian. In Eduard's memory those same few days were far from appearing so beautiful, and he was determined not to contribute anything to their glamour.

"I hear you've been cruising in the Mediterranean with a newspaper magnate," began Dimiter. But he broke off to say: "Just look, there, the girl on the right—look at the movement of her shoulder under her black shawl, you can actually see it as if it were being X-rayed!" He spoke with the utmost physical unconcern. "Superb," he continued, "only most of them smell so strong. In winter, it's not so bad.... Apropos, Kyril tells me you have a lady on board. Very convenient when one's at sea, only one must be sure the cabin doors open quietly, see that the hinges are well-oiled, otherwise the husband—I speak from experience! Enfin... Not going already?"

Eduard protested that he must rejoin his friends, though in reality he was under no obligation to do so, for it had been agreed among them that each was free to do what he liked ashore. As the prince was about to move away, it suddenly occurred to him that this loose-tongued gossip might give him information about Kyril. He therefore said somewhat irrelevantly: "You know, of course, that Dr. Sergievitch is a great favourite on board the yacht?"

"Naturally," exclaimed Dimiter with vivacity, and he unexpectedly sat himself down on one of the steps of the flagstaff belonging to the church of San Marco, his cane between his legs. "That goes without saying. When we were students together—my father wanted me to take my degree—I was to study law in Switzerland, at Lausanne, for the old man had friends there, exiles from Alexander's reign—and Kyril was to study there likewise. It was charming, for at Ouchy, in Madame Dorée's pension, there lived a most adorable woman, her daughter, you know—seventeen, noli me tangere type, brunette, slim as a boy, only up here, you know.—Eh bien, we were all crazy about this bronze divinity. But this poor devil—— Let's see, we must have been twenty-two at the time—— Yes, that's right, for it was in 1906, a year after the October revolution—— Well, Kyril, who was not in a position to make her a present of even so much as a bracelet, went straight to the goal, just as if this cool and suave young lady were a rutting bitch. Straight there, after seeing her but twice. I bet you it was his regard demoniaque and his magnificent teeth that did the trick." Dimiter struck viciously at the square red slabs with his cane. "Cette canaille!" he exclaimed. Then, unexpectedly, he sat silent, ruminating, filled with jealousy, as if he actually saw the couple before him in the flesh, ignoring the many years that had elapsed and the many successful adventures that had come his way since.

Eduard, standing in front of him, had at first listened, his hands resting on the small of his back, as he balanced himself on the soles of his brown shoes. But, his interest in the story waxing, he brought his face nearer to the speaker, placing one foot upon the step above and gripping the flagstaff with his left hand. He noticed the Russian's preoccupation and respected it for a while. Then, into the silence, he flung a question, lightly, as if he attached but little importance to the answer:

"He was very poor at the time?"

Dimiter looked up, blinking his eyes as he answered:

"Son of a cottager, Ukrainian peasant folk, adopted by some farmer or other. Suddenly wrenched from his natural surroundings and hurled into the vortex of revolutionary intrigue. Then he studied, buried himself in his work. Got subsidies, financed by the party—je ne connais pas les details. Later, I gather, he was sent to Siberia. Escaped, as usual.—En avant! Enough of this camelot! Come along to Danieli's. You must consent to be my guest at lunch, and tell me the most recent Berlin scandals."

"That would be delightful," rejoined Eduard, hoping to hide behind a mask of levity the pensive mood these scraps of information had induced. "Unfortunately I am a slave aboard the galley which you can see from here flaunting her charms in a robe of snow-white innocence. Tomorrow I'll drop you a line at your hotel. For today, I have no choice, I must aboard. Mille pardons!"

As soon as he had shaken the Russian off, Eduard made his way, with greater speed than was customary to him, through the strollers who were by now thronging the Piazza. He hailed a gondola, and, not wishing to be the prey of further questionings, called haphazard the first name that occurred to him:

"All' Accademia!"

He would thus gain time to consider where he would next order the man to go, and meanwhile he could give himself up to meditation. Lounging on the well-worn leather cushions, he saw nothing of the sights around him. His mental vision was filled with Kyril's form; he saw Kyril's eyes asparkle, Kyril's teeth gleaming; he heard Dimiter's envious voice saying, "Straight there, after seeing her but twice," and again Dimiter's tone as he uttered the words "bronze divinity," words that had pierced Eduard's heart. Then the dim interior of a peasant's hut rose before the prince's eyes, a new-born baby was crying, the farmer in his high boots entering and carrying the child away, the snow, the heat, the endless steppe, a resolute lad growing up on a farm, a propagandist on his rounds whispering the word of promise for a brighter future and giving the boy a book, the youngster devouring page after page, his face aglow—now the lad is packing his few things, scraping a handful of coins together, making for the railway station, journeying to Moscow—public meetings, a kopeck or two spent on food, all the rest of his scanty hoard going to buy books, and again books—then, suddenly, reindeer drawing a sleigh over Siberian wastes, Kyril sitting inside it, hastening onwards, for ever hastening, that "they" might not catch him, onward till he reaches the coast—now the youth is aboard a sailing vessel, none of your spick-and-span white yachts—and then the vision of the girl of seventeen summers, a bronze divinity, spurning the advances of the scion of a princely race in order to give herself to the meanly born swain who possessed her then and there as if she were "a rutting bitch." ...

"O—hé! Guarda—mi!"

The gondolier's warning cry broke in upon his reverie. The man's voice reminded him of the voice of his first tutor calling to him as he played in the park at home, summoning him back to his quarters in the left wing of the castle. But first he must bring his wooden ducks ashore, lovely white-lacquer birds, with which he had been playing in the marble basin where the goldfish swam; they must not be allowed to stay out over night. "Johann! Johann!" And the old servant would come running along the avenue of yew trees while the youngster stamped about in water, crying: "Johann, catch my ducks! No, not yet; first help me on with my shoes, I've got to be quick, Stefan is already with Herr Hollrigel, we've got to do twice two today!"

At this very hour, Diana was sitting alone in the cool, spacious hall of the Accademia, looking up at Titian's last masterpiece.

"What depth, what weight," thought she. "This is surely the climax of the century when, after so glorious a course, after hundreds of paintings depicting sunlit nudities, red-gold, shimmering hair, lute players twanging love-lorn ditties beside Aphrodite; of pictures of chains and war-harness, of boldness and of freedom—there should be conceived this canvas, showing beneath a green-gold cupola of transcendental loveliness, the dusky and livid body of Our Lord being taken down from the cross before the gloomy eyes of the watchful Magdalen.... To die young ... younger even than He ... in the dread ecstasy of love, in the throes of a twin pulsation, naked, up on a couch within earshot of the surges of a southern sea, under the skies in full view of one's guiding star.... Is my constellation really the Scales? Last night, when I heard them lowering the anchor, and the chain rattled over the cathead, I looked out through the port-hole, straight across to San Giorgio's point, and there was Saturn, the girdled god.... I must get away from this tragical picture.... It was here I saw those enigmatic angel heads of Leonardo's that time when I came away from Rome.... They were under glass, and some one carefully rolled back the cloth that protected them from the light.... They must be over there...."

Diana got up, passed through two other rooms, full of people coming and going and chatting, to reach a little gallery whose walls were adorned with glass cases. The place was deserted but for one other, a glimpse of whose back she caught in the farther corner. She started looking at the pages which were spread out for inspection beneath the glass. They were drawings by Leonardo himself.

She looked long and lovingly at these sweet angel faces with their ecstatic upward gaze and their unearthly, enigmatic smile; herein she read nothing but heavenly love, desireless and candid; and her heart, which had been troubled of late, gradually found ease and quietude from the contemplation of these pure and ethereal beings; she felt her soul flooded with the reflected laughter and devotion of these fanciful creations. The face of the master who had conjured them forth from the recesses of his fancy rose before her, and as peace invaded her and wrapped her round she felt that his spirit must be near at hand. A light footfall to her left brought her back to reality, though for a moment, so greatly was she under the spell of her musings, she thought it was the tread of the great master himself.

The form she had glimpsed as she entered the gallery had detached itself from the shadowy corner, and was now studying the contents of the cases, just as she was, only from the other end. He was a tall man in the middle sixties, dressed in a suit of dark cloth, and, from the position of his body as he bent to look at the drawings, it was difficult to decide whether he would be equally bent when walking or not. He wore no hat, his hair was silvery white, and his delicate face with its long nose and thin lips looked like an etching, especially when seen in profile and when one could appreciate the line of his long, white beard which fell softly over chin and throat. Indeed his head resembled the portrait Leonardo has left us of himself.

It was thus, in profile, as he bent over the cases, that Diana caught sight of him on raising her eyes, her pulses still throbbing from the glory of her vision. She started, for she recognized him at once.

"Father!" she cried, never stirring from where she stood. He looked up, without haste, and she saw his blue eyes turned towards her, kindly and inquiring now, whereas once they had been like shafts of glittering steel.

"Diana! It is you, my dear daughter!"

His voice struck to her very heart, just as his eyes had done. It had become more cordial during these three years since she had heard it last.

"Father!"

Slowly, as if she were a little girl, she went towards him. He raised his arms, but did not open them for an embrace, and kissed her on the forehead. It was as though he were giving her his blessing. They were silent for a while.

"Just before I caught sight of you," she said softly, "the head of this magician loomed near me, and when I heard footsteps approaching I thought it could be none other than he."

"And it turned out to be only your old father! How simply things explain themselves! As I look at you now you seem to me all aglow inside."

"I come from the company of angels," said Diana, casting another look at the drawings under the glass.

"And I am on my way to them, for at my end there were nothing but grimacing devils. I always start down there and make my way upward."

"Shall I have to go down among the devils?"

"Are you afraid of them?" he asked, scrutinizing her closely.

"I fear no one," said she, tossing her head defiantly, and thus making her curls dance around the edge of her cap.

He stood motionless as if captivated. Then he raised his arms once more in that peculiar gesture of his, and spoke in a voice that sounded younger and sweeter:

"Helena! That's just the way Helena had of tossing her head...."

The reference to her mother made Diana long to throw herself at his feet. She stood silent, controlling the impulse, for she knew that at any moment a stranger might appear in the doorway. He, too, made an effort to regain composure.

"Will you stay a little while with me?" he said at last.

"I—shall come with you, Father!"

As she spoke, she remembered other claims, the yacht, the prince, her own desires; and her father was quick to perceive that there was an obstacle to the free disposal of her time, an impediment imposed from without. He said:

"Not long ago I dreamed that I might meet you."

"When was that? Do you remember?"

"I remember not only the day when each of my dreams has occurred, but almost the time as well, for I have written them all down these twelve years past. This one came three days ago, towards evening, when I fell asleep in my arm-chair—a very unusual thing for me to do. It must have been nearly seven o'clock, for when I awoke I saw the little steamer passing by. So I could not have been asleep long."

She nodded her head.

"And at the same hour, three days ago, I was standing on the deck of a pleasure yacht, thinking: We are going to Venice! It is April, perhaps Father will be there!"

"There, you see how simple it all is!" The old man smiled genially. "And now let's go and have some lunch and a good talk."

With the deliberate and courtly gesture appropriate to a man of his years, he offered his daughter an arm. As she took it, a surge of maternal solicitude flooded her heart: she saw the soft hat he held in his hand, and looked up at his silvery head:

"Won't you," she began, "... it is rather cold in these rooms...."

"I cannot wear a hat in the presence of the master's work," he said simply, as they went on their way.

As they were about to descend, she caught sight of the prince who was in the act of landing. He, however, changed his mind, stepping back into the gondola, hastily pulling the curtains around the seat, and thus concealing himself from the passers-by. Since the gondolier had brought his fare to the place he was bidden, the man waited patiently till it should please the gentleman to alight. But Eduard did not stir.

Hidden by the curtains, the prince watched Diana stepping lightly between the huge couchant lions. She looked the embodiment of youth as she accommodated her springy gait to that of the tall old gentleman at her side: she was in a light-coloured coat and skirt that the wind from the lagoon played with as she walked; he in well-tailored black, leaning upon an ivory-handled stick. Eduard's mind was still full of reminiscences of his childhood days, and for him the broad steps were those of his ancestral halls where likewise two couchant lions kept guard, and Diana was descending them, leaning on the arm of his own old father.

As she stepped into a gondola near by, the prince suddenly resolved to follow her.

CHAPTER TEN

The "Excelsior" while at sea had appeared to be the sanctuary of orderliness: here, in port, she had cast her virtues to the wind. No one came punctually to meals; the steward had gone ashore and his substitute proved a broken reed; the captain was invisible; the cabins were hot and stuffy, with port-holes tightly shut; above all, everything was grimed with coal dust, for the yacht was replenishing her bunkers, and the air was filled with the rattle of the operation.

When Scherer arrived, half an hour late, and went to the dining saloon, he found Wilhelm the solitary occupant, waiting patiently before his empty plate, and whiling away the time till his comrades should put in an appearance by cutting initials in the skin of an orange and gently whistling as he worked.

"You must be awfully hungry, my dear fellow," said Scherer apologetically. "I see you are trying to make the best of my unpunctuality by carving the emblems of love. May I have a look?"

Wilhelm turned the fruit towards his host, so that the letters D. W. became visible.

"Are you so very deeply in love?" Scherer asked with a blend of gravity and amusement.

"I don't quite understand."

"Well, you've joined your initial to that of the young lady."

"My initial? Oh no. The letters stand for Diana de Wassilko. When I was cutting the little 'd' which marks her rank, the knife slipped; but one can still make it out if one looks close enough. I meant to put the orange at her place, so that we all might know where she would sit if she happened to turn up for lunch."

Scherer took his seat at the table, and, after a word of excuse, buried himself in the letters he had fetched at the post office.

"If I were to set about carving initials in real earnest," continued Wilhelm, when the meal was at last served, "a number of other letters would have to be grouped round the D."

"What other letters?" asked Scherer pleasantly.

"You are not going to lure any secrets out of me, Herr Scherer," said Wilhelm, trying to copy his host's worldly manner. "All I will tell you is that I'd put an E. and a K. and also an S. under the D."

"An S. too?"

"Of course. But they'd only be there as liabilities, you know, not as assets in relation to the D. Not that, certainly not that."

"And which would be assets?"

"Assets? None at all. Nothing but a D. I seem to be giving a double meaning to everything I say. Honour bright, the D. stands alone."

Eduard and Kyril followed close on one another's heels. The Russian was agitated, he threw his letters down higgledy-piggledy, growling to himself in his native tongue, and all because a packet he had been expecting had failed to come. He asked if Scherer would not like to meet Salvatore, the leader of the socialist press in the town. Scherer countered by offering to introduce Kyril to Ricci. Both men were aware that their two spheres of interest could never be reconciled.

The prince, for his part, was pensive, taciturn, saying he had seen nothing, and that Dimiter had bored him. Kyril laughed, and begged the prince to forgive him his desertion. This was the first day Eduard had seen the Russian laugh, and the splendid teeth that were disclosed in the act made the prince uneasy.

Finally came Franklin, making what speed he could, his necktie askew, preoccupied and uncompanionable.

"I'm afraid I can't raise your spirits by handing you some pleasant correspondence," said Scherer. "There were no letters for you."

"I fetched them myself," answered Franklin mendaciously, as he continued to eat in silence.

One of the crew stepped up to Scherer at that moment, and handed him a letter, telling him that the messenger was awaiting an answer. Scherer tore open the envelope, ran his eyes over the note, and then read it aloud to the company.

"I have met my father ashore. Till the yacht sails, I should like to stay with him. Please ask Mary to come to me. You, dear Herr Scherer, and your friends are cordially invited to come and see us tomorrow.

"Yours,
"D. W."

Wilhelm was the first to break the silence which had fallen upon the party, completely taken aback by the news. He lifted the orange he had carved, saying:

"You see, Gentlemen, there are the letters, prophetic, D. W., as in the note."

Scherer opened another envelope, enclosed within Diana's, and read:

"Grigori de Wassilko
asks the pleasure of your company ... tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Palazzo Tiepoletto."

"There are four similar cards, one for each of you," continued Scherer, dealing the invitations out to his guests.

Wilhelm took his, read it, turned it over, endeavouring to solve the mystery of a visiting card, and to infuse with poesy the display of a name on an oblong of white pasteboard.

"Tiepoletto," queried Scherer, "are there not three palaces of that name?"

"This one is the last as you leave the harbour," explained Eduard, pocketing his card.

"You know...?"

All eyes were raised from the cards and fixed on Eduard's face.

"Elderly gentleman, white beard, carefully tended," explained the prince with assumed indifference. "I propose that we, too, send an avalanche of cards!"

Scherer undertook to accept the invitation in the name of his guests, and while he was penning his note, the others stood about the dining saloon, chary of words, reserved, while the coal rattled into the bunkers, a hostile symbol as it were, racking to ears accustomed for many days to the monotonous bourdon of seas and winds. Wilhelm, submissive young simpleton that he was, had got over his pastoral adventure with Diana in the best way he could, by forcing himself to regard it in silence as a bitter-sweet jest—for never since she had on that first evening, rejected his advances in a friendly enough fashion, had he again ventured to approach her as a lover. Eduard, at a loose end like a wooer who just before declaring himself has to leave his beloved if only for a day, was a bundle of nerves, restlessness, and impatience. Kyril and Franklin had had strange and disquieting news. Nothing was to be got from the latter, but when all the others had gone ashore he had his trunks carried down the gangway, and when his host returned that same evening a note was all that was left to tell of Franklin's presence.

"A letter was awaiting me here which summoned me to Vienna, urging me to use the utmost speed as the matter concerned my official duties. I am thus constrained to leave the white ship earlier than we had planned, a step I regret all the more when I remember how generously you have played your part as host. Forgive me for departing in this unceremonious way without a personal leave-taking, but it is expedient that I should catch the night train; now it is already six o'clock, and there is no sign of your return.

"A day will come when I shall be able to thank you in person.

"FRANKLIN."

Folded within this sheet was another, written in a more youthful hand, the lines running in curves, rhapsodic and divided into rhythmical versicles:

"No! There must be truth between friends. May I count you my friend, today? There was no letter, no night train at all. A meeting merely. Just fancy! A meeting in a little street... Languid embraces, melancholy, staring eyes... Forgetting culture, ambition, knowledge! You smile? At my age one does not find that the gods often trouble to bestow ecstatic hours. Yes, it is true, during these last days, when it has seemed that a greater intimacy has sprung up between me and the girl, my senses have become confused, I have felt rejuvenated—and I am happy to acknowledge the fact: it is the huntress who has sent me into this Venetian beggar-woman's arms, has sent me to this queen. Her hair is like what one sees in the elder Palma's pictures, but her skin is like Franklin's the younger."

After lunch, Eduard had tried to get a siesta, but he was still agitated with his morning adventure, and presently decided to leave the noisy, dusty ship. He was pulled ashore in company with Kyril and Wilhelm, the two latter having agreed to explore a distant quarter of the town together, each wishing, though from very different motives, to rub shoulders with the common people. The Russian spoke very little Italian, but Wilhelm had bicycled all over Italy, learning old songs and new, and in the process becoming a master of the language. Now they had cajoled Giorgino into acting as guide, for though the lad had come originally from Vicenza, he knew Venice very well.

Eduard, though attracted by the excursion, could not bring himself to make one of the party. It seemed to him impossible to walk with this Russian among people whom, no more than a couple of hours ago, he had regarded with a blend of envy and timidity as aboriginals. When he turned to leave his two companions, Wilhelm's faithful, doglike glance smote him to the heart, and he asked himself why it was that people should find it so hard to understand one another. He went on his way aimlessly, dreading the long afternoon that lay ahead, and suddenly realizing that all the hours till seven the following evening had to be spent somehow. "I ought to have joined forces with Scherer," he thought as he strolled along streets which at this hour were always empty.—"Women... One could spend the time in a woman's company... Adelheid might be better than nothing... They have a lovely house ... and even if Umberto, the husband, does talk exclusively of Principe Doria, she herself is a fine figure of a woman, and invariably gracious...." Now he found himself accosted by a flower girl whose nosegays of narcissus suggested a lady's boudoir.... Hailing a gondola, he asked to be taken to the palazzo....

"Eduard," cried a plump and handsome woman entering the little salon precipitately, his card still in her hand. "Eduard the Confessor! How nice to see you again."

"1042 to 1066, my dear Adelaide," said Eduard, allowing himself to be embraced. "I have not come here as a confessor this time, but as a true and faithful knight, to lay these narcissi upon your ever youthful breast!"

She took the proffered nosegay, and, without a look at the flowers, stuck them in her bodice. The whole thing was done in so matter-of-fact a way, in so stereotyped a manner, that Eduard could not help thinking how different Diana's reaction would have been, how graciously she would have taken a bouquet from the hands that offered it. He could not now understand how he had managed to be even a little in love with this woman a few years ago, though she was amiability personified, and at that time had been slim and graceful.

"On the contrary, I am no longer old enough to act the mother confessor as I did when you were here before, because your noble family has unfortunately determined to turn so Protestant a face to the world. But, Dio mio, what are you doing now? How's uncle Heinrich? And Elisabeth? And Katharina? And where do you come from now?"

Eduard gave a pithy report of these family matters, and then turned the conversation to the lady's husband and children. The former, he learned, had gone to Rome, the latter had gone for a day's excursion to the country. He was shown countless photographs of the youngsters, indeed every table was laden with these effigies, so that his cup of steaming tea, as he pleasantly remarked, looked like an offering of incense at the shrine of Margherita, his little cousin. This cheerful, worldly-wise woman had a wholesome effect upon Eduard, relieving him from his depression; and, after half an hour in which she had made many more references to the days of their youth, he congratulated himself on the impulse which had made him come to see her, and on finding her alone.

"The view from here is really too Baedekerish, Adelaide," he said, looking through the slats of the green Venetian blind.

"Please use the German version of my name."

"The other is Beethoven's version," bowing profoundly and then coming towards her again. "I recollect that when I was still a little boy in sailor suits and Therese sang the song I always conceived of the beloved lady as having red-gold hair like yours."

"Caro mio, one is doomed to become grey, and that very soon now; that much-praised landscape is not a little to blame in the process. When I first came here, a young and inexperienced girl, everything seemed like heaven to me. But, dear cousin, to have nothing to look out upon during fifteen years beyond water and black boats, with never a motor car to relieve the monotony, not even a motor boat allowed on the canals—it becomes melancholy in the long run! In fact when one sees these romantic Venetians at close quarters, it puts a gloom on one's spirits. It's all very well to love in such melancholy surroundings, but when it comes to marriage—I'm all for dry land, my dear."

"Neither damp nor dry, Adelheid! Unmated one can fly freely in the third element."

"Or one roasts in the fourth," cried she, drawing him down to her side on the blue baroque sofa. "And now your confession, Eduard the Confessor, just as in old times, on this very sofa. Tell me, when is it to be, and, above all, on whom has your choice fallen?"

"Stefan must lead the way," he said, evasively.

"Stefan is a sick man, and, though Heinrich has been married these three years, he has no children. It's up to you, Eduard, to make the succession safe. You surely ought to do it for the throne's sake, even if the claims of the altar mean nothing to you."

"My younger brothers will cater for countless heirs, it's such a delightful society game!"

"Fi donc," she protested, laughing.

"Why? Don't you agree?"

She laughed more heartily, saying:

"No doubt you have had experiences of the sort?"

"Only theoretical knowledge."

"No young sprigs of your own?"

"I am alone; am unfortunately not in a position..."

"But there must be beautiful young women about, who will pose with as little on as Phidias's statues—or was it Michelangelo?"

Eduard was honestly pleased that Diana should have been introduced into the conversation. His thoughts lingered upon the vision of her as Atalanta, he saw her ankles, her throat, again, and the dauntless line of her profile. Hard upon the vision came one of her in a close-fitting sweater, standing in the bows of a ship; then, another, when she wore a black evening dress, low-cut; he lost all sense of the passage of time as a hundred other postures, talks, looks, and thoughts drifted by, till at last the scene enacted this very morning on the flight of steps, between the two guardian lions, rose to his mind.... He sat brooding longer than Adelheid had expected, and it was with instinctive delicacy that she asked very softly:

"Or am I perhaps indiscreet?"

Eduard, who had lost his mother early and had no sisters, had from childhood been on brotherly terms of affection with this cousin. As a lieutenant, then eighteen years of age, he had confided his first and only love affair to Adelheid who was ten years his senior and the mother of two boys. The confidence had taken place on this very sofa, as she had just reminded him. After the manner of young men, his avowal to a woman who was still charming with the freshness of youth and who had not yet become resigned to her fate, moved him to a deeper sentiment towards his confidante, so that his regard for her, hitherto quasi-filial, became sublimer, verging on love. Yet it was all no more than a breath, a sigh, on a September day, as evening was drawing near.

This afternoon, in the dimly lit room, as he sat near so good a friend, after the strange happenings of the morning, after the cruise in which the tides of love had ebbed and flowed along his lonely shores, the old-time trust revived in his heart, and he said, as he leaned back among the cushions, a cigarette between his teeth, with unwonted gravity in his voice:

"Don't you worry on my account, dear Adelheid. But, since rumour has travelled to your lagoon, I will make the fatal confession that I do not like the lady spoken of casually—at least I would prefer if you did not do so..."

"Oh," she cried softly, taken aback.

"Well, you see," he continued tranquilly, "this is a far more serious affair than that other long ago, although at that time we had to do with a young duchess. Meanwhile, for these ten years, calm has prevailed, no wind has stirred to fill the sails of my outlandish vessel. And even now—I hardly know if I dare venture on the voyage..."

She was all ears, eager and inspired.

"Is it to be a long journey?" she inquired at length.

He stood up, saying curtly:

"It will be this journey, dear Adelheid, or not at all."

He frightened her. Eduard was looked upon by his family as a crank and a libertarian, but one nevertheless who would guard the old traditions from tarnish or decay. Now it seemed all at once as if he were resolved to break with the conventions proper to a ruling house. Confused and perplexed, she asked:

"Does your—does anyone know?..."

"No one can know what does not yet exist—although Papa has had his medicine to swallow already... But I wanted you to know what a jade fate is. As for me," and now he spoke with his customary persiflage, "usque ad naufragium I'll sail alone—a simpler and cheaper way. Please forgive me the melodramatic intermezzo I've been inflicting upon you. The danger is not great.... Have you heard from Papa? Heinrich writes me that the doctor finds him much as usual. Don't you think I ought to go and see him?"

"Are you then on the homeward road? You told me, did you not, that you have been yachting, with friends.... Where have you been, and how has the cruise pleased you, if one may ask?"

"Mediterranean, Adriatic. Exquisite aimlessness, sometimes under sail, at others by steam. No museums; nothing but wind and deck chairs. When we leave here, we're to cruise down the Dalmatian coast...."

"That reminds me. Last Tuesday Countess Münsterberg was here. You remember, the woman with the feline movements, and the rather mad vagaries. Ah, you were the more fortunate onlooker!"

"On her way home?"

"She wanted to take the steamer to Ragusa next day; it's a tiresome journey via Trieste, you know. I can't understand how any one can bear to live in so out-of-the-way a place!"

Eduard made some quick mental calculations: If we call on Olivia, Diana will at length find a background. A unique opportunity to see her in such surroundings. What for, though? Know everything beforehand. All the same...

Then he said:

"Yes, my dear Adelheid! How can anyone bear to live in so out-of-the-way a place?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The morning light shone down limpid and warm in the courtyard of the Armenian monastery on the island in the lagoon; and as the slanting shadows of column and arch fell athwart the cloistered ways, the shafts and crosses and arches were figured on the marble flooring, creating as it were a second architectural masterpiece.

Two human shadows came to mix their contours with those of the masonry. A tall, black-robed elderly monk was leaning against one of the pillars, and was speaking quietly but earnestly to an old man, likewise clad in black, who was bending his head in order to be on a level with the eyes of his interlocutor, and was listening attentively. Both men had flowing white beards. In the court round which the cloisters were built, there was a little fountain plashing in the sunshine, and on the edge of its basin sat a young woman lazily stroking a great cat which responded with sensual delight to her caresses, arching its back and raising its tail as her hand passed from its neck and down its spine.

All four of these sentient creatures were being penetrated with the sun's rays, and three of them appeared to be so content as to be wholly without a desire of any sort. Only he who had vowed to renounce the world, seemed to be a prey to passionate impulses.

"Even a convent is unable to kill the impulsive force of man," thought Diana, as her eyes travelled from the calm face of her father, to the glossy coat of the animal, now stroked into ecstatic quietude; as she considered her own mood, and then compared these three states of beatific tranquillity with the secret flame which consumed the monk. "Maybe my father only attained his present condition of meditative peace after death had deprived him of his companion. Helena! The name rose from his very heart when he uttered it yesterday. And she died in giving birth to a son whom he never sees...."

The two men separated, and her father turned to seek her out. With infinite precaution, lest she disturb the sleeping cat, she slid down from the basin's rim and crossed the flags to where he stood. As she went, she noticed that the well-tended beds were planted with vegetables, and the aroma of damp earth rose to her nostrils.

"They must have watered the young shoots before the sun got round," she thought, vaguely.

The conversation which the meeting with the monk had interrupted was now resumed as father and daughter paced up and down beneath the Gothic arches.

"As I looked at you both," began Diana, "the layman seemed to be the more spiritual of the two. What had occurred to excite the Armenian?"

"I have known him these twenty years," said the old man, passing his ivory-handled stick into the small of his back and resting his two hands on it at either end. "In those days, when I was engaged on excavation work in Anatolia, he spoke with just the same animation. His people out there are still being harried by the Turks, and he imagines I can pull strings on Armenia's behalf because I occasionally dine at the embassy in London."

"Have you ties out there?"

"I don't keep them up now. But you were in those parts not so long ago, and at cross purposes, it seemed to me."

"Not at cross purposes, Father."

"What about the heart—did you not write to me that...?"

She hung on his arm, saying:

"When will my heart beat a steady rhythm?"

"As soon as it beats slower, Diana," he assured her, looking at her out of friendly eyes, while she clung to him more resolutely than ever.

"When did your heart begin to beat slower, Father?"

"A long while ago."

"How long?"

"When my hair turned white."

"I wish mine were grey," she said, a smile on her lips.

"I have no wish that mine be brown again. I love age. It seems to me like a statue one has dug up out of the ground: more lovely than a new one could ever be, even though a limb should be lacking."

He paused by a capital which had fallen from one of the columns in the cloisters and now lay amid the grass, surrounded by purple iris, looking for all the world as if it had just been shovelled out of the earth and the column to which it belonged lay still beneath the soil.

"What purpose can this old thing serve, I wonder?" He stood contemplating it pensively.

"It will catch the dews from heaven in its convolutions so that birds may come and slake their thirst," answered Diana.

He looked up, and they resumed their walk.

"How charmingly you choose your words," he said after a while. "But my birds are all flown and seek other springs."

"Let me fly free a little longer, spreading my wings over the endless seas that lie beyond this lagoon. Do you hear how the gulls are calling?"

She pulled herself away from his arm as if to get nearer to the waters which lapped round the island's sandy shores. He stood awaiting her pleasure, a smile irradiating his face. He watched her as she took off her wide-brimmed hat and swung it over her arm, while shaking out her curls as if to feel the sea-wind through her locks. Soon, she turned to him again, took his hand in hers, and kissed it.

"Forgive me," she said. "It is barely a day since I left the yacht, and the scream of a seagull fills me with longing. How will the bird fare inland?"

"And what about Sidney?"

"Sidney? Would you not like to have him back with you again?"

"He left of his own accord, two years ago. I cannot put constraint upon grown-up children."

"Is he getting—sufficient money from you?"

"Only a little sum, hardly enough to live even modestly upon, the same I wanted you to have when you decided to fend for yourself. I have no more to give."

"But he needs a great deal."

"He's never written to ask for more. Is he earning nothing? Is he not drawing?"

"He did—a little modelling recently."

"Ah? Caricatures? Animals?"

"No, a figure."

"A man's?"

"No, mine."

The father asked no further. He had an allegorical turn of mind, and the faculty of seeing symbolical meanings in things. He saw his two children before him in fancy, and marvelled at the idea that one of them should serve as the beautiful material for the art of the other. The sense of liberation, which he was invariably aware of when confronted by the work of a master, became associated with this symbolical conception, so that he felt only allegory and form, and that the two were mysteriously intertwined. He lost himself in a series of strange conclusions, wherein a mythical brother wedded his mythical sister; he then returned to his own fatherhood and let his fancy roam on the thought how the mother of these two children (who had always seemed to him the symbol of beauty) was reproduced in the form of Diana, while his own plastic talents had been reincarnated in Sidney's hands. Thus plunged in meditation, the old man strolled along at Diana's side. After a while he seemed to arouse himself as if from slumber, and was about to ask if the modelling had been successful, when he became aware of a quickening in Diana's step, a tall apparition arising in the path, and of greetings exchanged.

Eduard, who had spoken of the San Lazzaro monastery with Diana, and whose thoughts were wholly centred upon her, had come over to the island this morning on the chance of meeting her there. As the father slowly aroused himself from his reverie and observed the cordiality of the encounter between the two young people, it was borne in upon him how far he was removed from the trend of his daughter's destiny. He observed the countenance of the man, suffused with inner happiness, and, guessing all this signified, he turned his eyes away as the two, like a bridal pair, came towards him. Diana introduced the prince, whose bow was deeper than he himself was aware.

"I'm disturbing you, intruding on your morning serenity, I fear," Eduard said hesitantly, and his tone took Diana by surprise, for it had such a boyish ring.

"Certainly not, Your Highness," said the old gentleman. "Diana has been telling me how well you keep the party entertained on board. And to think that on her old father's account she should have had to forgo those pleasures!"

"I have to thank you for your invitation, Herr von Wassilko," and Eduard felt how much more seemly the name sounded when addressed to this white-haired veteran than to the young whipper-snapper in Berlin.

They continued their stroll to the accompaniment of such civilities until they reached a stone bench at the other end of the cloisters. The seat was bathed in sunshine, and the three sat enjoying the warmth. The old man was pleased with the young man's manner, though it seemed a trifle too conventional for his taste, and he asked himself why it was that Diana had singled out this particular member of the yachting party for specially friendly commendation. Diana did not join in the conversation; she was waiting for one of those airy nothings which the prince was wont to indulge in when he talked.

But Eduard was thoroughly enjoying these exchanges. He wanted more of them, and he was delighted when the old gentleman rose to his fly and began to discuss personalities moving in the diplomatic circles of London society. The prince was wholly indifferent to such people as a rule, but he listened now, for the pleasant gossip gave him a sense of security, showed him the social background against which Diana's father moved and had his being. At last he was getting something he had long sought for, the confirmation of his own surmises as to Diana's status and upbringing. Inasmuch as, under stress of the remnant of inherited prejudices which persisted despite all his open-mindedness, he was on the lookout for a uniform in which he could clothe the members of this remarkable family, thereby raising them to his own level—he showed towards this man whose whole demeanour and aspect betokened a rare intelligence, a suavity which his father had never been able to make him exhibit towards his real equals.

"Do you know San Lazzaro, Sir," asked Wassilko, rising and pointing to the monastery buildings. "I fear I am keeping you too long in England when you should be enjoying a glimpse of Armenia."

"I know the place well. Here, too, there is at least one English room."

"Ah, Lord Byron's? Is he a favourite of yours?"

"Now at last," thought Diana, "he will raise his mask."

But the prince was silent. He was asking himself whether Diana, this child of liberty, would ever adapt herself to the laws of his class (at least to the extent of an outward observance of its conventions). In his perplexity, he had been tempted, that morning, to emphasize, before her and her father, his own rank and station. Now, when the name of the English poet cropped up in the air radiant with morning sunlight, he looked past the questioner and Diana, across the glistening waters of the lagoon, and said:

"As a poet I appreciate him greatly. But as a nobleman he seems to me to have been somewhat of a wastrel."

Hardly had he spoken, when Diana realized what was going on within Eduard, and why he separated at this particular moment in time the poet from the nobleman. At the same instant she saw through the whole complicated network of considerations and hesitations in which he had for so long been enmeshed. Nevertheless, she was not going to allow that there was anything amiss in the famous adventurer's conduct; she was on the defensive in his behalf; but her training hindered her from taking up the cudgels by word of mouth until her father had spoken. He, meanwhile, had been tranquilly awaiting the prince's reply and now made ready to answer, beginning with grave formality.

"Sir, your own birth and station would naturally predispose you to consider the nobleman before the poet. But we others, who have no ties either as Englishmen or as noblemen, may be permitted to judge him by his verses, whose beauty even you are willing to concede."

Diana, who had listened in silence while the two men were talking, now seized her opportunity for the defence. "I can see him as he sat at his table in a cell over there in the east wing. He would rise from his stool after hours of toil, for the light of day was fading and he could no longer decipher the words in his Armenian Bible. Approaching the window he would look out, his ear bent towards the town over there, across the lagoon. It must have been in June. He calls his servant, who makes ready the gondola. Byron steps down to the water's edge, indifferent to the little waves which wet his feet. Suddenly, he flings his coat and boots into the boat, plunges into the water, and swims to the town. Dripping, he steps ashore, crosses the Piazzetta, and changes his clothes in the rooms of one of his inamoratas, dances the night through, and returns next morning to the holy fathers to resume his studies and his translation of the sacred text. Yes, indeed, Prince! In such circumstances one may well remain unproductive as a poet—and scandalous as a nobleman!"

Eduard, forgetful of his pose, listened to Diana's tirade with growing appreciation. Her voice, low and melodious at first, had increased in volume as she warmed to her subject, until, at the last, she had flung out the words sharply, turning her shaft against him in a direct attack. He smiled as he said:

"Mademoiselle has sacrificed the poet. Nothing can hinder me now from sacrificing the nobleman."

"You could not venture to speak in that way in England, Diana," commented her father, wishing to pour oil on troubled waters, while he thought: "They must be on very unfriendly terms, I fear."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The simple meal came to an end quicker than any of the party expected, and Scherer was thinking how difficult its preparation must have been, for Herr von Wassilko lived in two rambling, scantily furnished rooms lacking all the amenities that would have tended to make guests comfortable. And yet, in spite of obvious drawbacks, everything had gone off without a hitch. The very simplicity of the entertainment was a factor of its success. Mary had noiselessly attended to every one's needs, and talk flowed easily around the table under the red-shaded lamp, the only spot of light in a room where the shadows lingered. The old gentleman and Scherer had contributed most to the conversation, for they found one another congenial. Diana's attention was divided, for she had to play hostess and see that Mary provided all that was needed for the comfort of her father's guests. Eduard could not take his eyes off her as, sitting there in her flowing lilac gown, she acquitted herself of her part with so much ease and dignity. Before him arose visions of her presiding at other tables, not at official banquets so much, as at homely gatherings, homely both in the worldly and in the idyllic meaning of the word. He fancied himself unobserved, but Diana felt his eyes upon her, and she knew (since she had so suddenly plumbed the depths of his thoughts that morning) that this evening he would come to certain conclusions concerning her, conclusions which would be the result of long previous cogitation.

Kyril, taciturn by nature and only able to give vent to his ideas in spontaneous debates, had met so many party members since his arrival in Venice and had learned of so many underground intrigues, that his tendency to keep silence in the presence of others was accentuated this evening. In addition, his host's appearance fascinated him, and he sat observing the old gentleman attentively. Wilhelm, alone of the company, appeared to be disappointed. He had expected to meet an astrologer, a man who could read the meaning of the stars, or, at least, an alchemist, some wonder-worker whose house would be full of maps and globes, of bottles, retorts, and measuring glasses. Yet in the hall, as he entered this sometime wealthy palace which had now fallen on evil days, instead of armour and chains, all he saw was a row of pegs each bearing a hat belonging to the master of the house. To this display, the newcomers reacted differently. Kyril sneered inwardly at so much needless formality; Scherer mentally appraised their cost; and the prince noted the absence of the tall hat, which might of course be in safe keeping in one of the old man's boxes.

As Herr von Wassilko rose from table, he said:

"I trust you will excuse so primitive an entertainment, it is all the impoverished descendant of an old family can afford. But I prefer to rent a couple of rooms such as these, rather than put up in a hotel. I cannot help envisaging the persons who have been there before me, perhaps vacated the premises an hour before, sat upon the same chairs, eaten from the same spoons, and set the air tingling with the sound of their senseless talk. I cannot help being aware of this as I sit at table; the whole atmosphere is full of it."

They took their places in a semicircle before the open glass doors leading to the balcony, two of the chairs being comfortable modern ones, and the remainder stiff and austere, recalling the furniture of an earlier period. The host, though his guests had pressed him to take one of the easy chairs, elected to sit in a large Gothic chair devoid of any kind of upholstering. Eduard and Scherer, loath to make themselves more comfortable than the old man, had ensconced themselves in equally rigid seats, while Diana, throwing a huge Venetian shawl about her shoulders, had pulled a dumpty to the step leading on to the balcony and had settled down there out of range of the lamp and of Eduard's persistent eyes. Only from time to time was she for a moment lit up in the flickering light of a passing gondola.

"Thus it remains for the two young gentlemen to play the grandfather," said the host pleasantly.

Wilhelm, who had expected as much, immediately threw himself into the depths of one of the arm-chairs, exclaiming:

"That's just what I feel too! And we'll have to be taken great care of for we are the hope of the nation."

"I accept the rôle with pleasure," said Kyril, suiting the action to the word. "It seems to me the only thing I can do under the circumstances, though I don't feel in the least bit grandfatherly. Those other chairs take us back to earlier centuries, reminding us of the might wielded by long extinct courts. At best they should be in a museum, where a protective cord would intimate to the man of the twentieth century that he may only gaze on them from afar—if, that is to say, he ever finds time in this age of hustle to study such antiquities."

"You would thus appear to be the most advanced among us, and so, I suppose, the youngest, Doctor?"

"His Highness is no older," said Kyril grumpily.

"And now you must draw their horoscopes," cried Wilhelm eagerly. "You have all the necessary apparatus, haven't you?" He sprang up from his chair, ready to fetch the supposed implements, and burning with curiosity to see them. But Scherer held him back.

"We must not trouble Herr von Wassilko today."

"Ah, my daughter has been giving me away! I gather the young gentleman looks upon me as a second Swedenborg."

"Was Swedenborg in Venice once?" asked Diana dreamily. She had paid no heed to the rest of the conversation, but the seer's name had caught her attention, and she sensed an affinity between him and her father, though the latter had seemed inclined to repudiate anything of the kind.

"Yes," he said, "Swedenborg was here, anno 1718. That's nearly two hundred years ago, Diana."

Eduard pricked up his ears. The quiet way in which the words were spoken, the mystery surrounding the Swedish mystic, the old-fashioned use of the Latin word, the affectionate tone in which he had pronounced Diana's beautiful name, the resemblance of his manner of speech to hers, so pensive and comfortable, as if the best had been left unsaid; his movements, as he leaned forward in his high-backed Gothic chair, to address his daughter sitting at the open door; his flowing, white beard, lit up in the rays of the lamp which had been brought over to where they sat; the contrast between this venerable countenance and her face, lifted in childlike expectancy to his, questioning and eager, suffused with a ruddy glow from the shaded lamp—all these things combined to fill Eduard with a sudden rush of tender impatience, and his lonely heart longed to be linked for ever with such fellow mortals as these, persons who realized freedom through self-restraint. Now, for the first time, he wished that Diana might read his feelings clearly in his eyes. He stepped forward towards the circle of light, intending, while turning his back upon the others, to be visible to her alone. But he was arrested half way by a sonorous voice inquiring:

"What, actually, did this man Swedenborg achieve?"

It was Kyril who spoke from the encompassing shadows. Diana turned her eyes from the contemplation of her father towards the spot whence the voice had come, and Eduard perceived that her brows were puckered where a moment before they had been serene. But Wassilko answered unperturbed:

"He left us twenty volumes of natural science, dealing in especial with mineralogy; he was a member of many learned societies; and, on account of his achievements, his name has been entered in the annals of science."

Kyril stirred uneasily. Imbued with a fanatical conception of an imaginary future, ever in conflict with prejudice and tradition, he had found no time, pressed as he was with the tasks imposed by his own spirit and by the position he held in the party, to bring equipoise into his nature. Thus it was that, with all the powers of his mind, he had resisted the daimonic forces within him, banishing them whenever he felt that they were raising their heads, looking upon them as some out-worn conceit that must at all cost be overcome. And yet he was attracted by that other world, lured by the unreasoning realm of emotion, especially by the realm of music; the cosmos of impenetrable laws fascinated him, drawing him away from the tangible laws of economics, and subjecting him against his will to its caprices. Now, when he learned for the first time that a visionary, a man towards whom he felt a fundamental mistrust, had likewise been an investigator in the field of positive science, he realized (for gifted natures almost invariably apply the lessons from the life histories of notable personalities to themselves) that there was a possibility that he himself might some day lapse into a similar state of spiritual depravity. He said after a pause:

"Yet had he produced nothing more than these works of science, he would hardly have penetrated into the ranks of the famous and dwelt in the memories of men. I had myself never heard of his achievements in this field, nor do I fancy have most people."

"That's true enough," confirmed Scherer. "I remember when Professor Somebody-or-Other was giving the memorial lecture at the Stockholm academy, he stated that he himself was far from knowing all the works of the master whose memory he was honouring."

A laugh rippled round the circle, and the old gentleman added:

"You are right, and I, too, am no wiser than that laudator officialis."

Kyril stuck to his point.

"But what about those other works of his which dealt with the occult? His so-called 'supernatural' ideas must be familiar to you. Tell me whether in these there is anything tangible, anything of lasting value."

Diana turned away and gazed down upon the canal, thinking: "He should be climbing in the rigging, using his splendid limbs, or biting into an apple with his dazzling teeth. He is a fish out of water in Venice and in my father's company."

Eduard, who had followed her movement and had dimly caught the expression on her face as she turned away, was thinking: "If I were sitting beside her in that gondola now drifting by, I would try to whisper away all the things that are causing her pain at this moment."

"Such a question is very difficult to answer," said Herr von Wassilko, sitting upright in his high-backed chair. "These things are impalpable, and durability is hardly one of their characteristics. They do not seem bound by time, but only to men (and there have been such since man first began to think) who, following the laws of their own nature, aspire to bring them into closer relation with their own humanity."

"Very ably put," thought Scherer, whose habit it was to evade such transcendental questions by similar generalizations. He felt the old man was his equal as a man of the world, and entirely failed to perceive that the reticence of the reply masked a believing soul and was not the result, as it would have been in Scherer's case, of consideration for a cultured, though thoroughly rational, outlook which had to be upheld from two sides at once.

Kyril was silent. He felt that he had been worsted, and since the others felt the same, they were grateful to Wilhelm for his intervention when he said innocently:

"If only I knew whether one could learn the art of seeing spirits! I once asked an expert in Berlin after a séance, and he said: 'Your friends tell me you play the lute. Well, if one has music in one's heart one is not far from the occult world.'"

"Where is your lute, Wilhelm?" asked Diana.

There was a general sigh of relief at this change of subject. They spoke of musical instruments; and when Wilhelm came back with his lute in his hand (he rarely went out of an evening without it and Venice was the last place in the world where he would neglect to take it), Wassilko said:

"I'm sorry there is neither a piano nor a violin here. But my landlord possesses a wonderful 'cello, and, since I used to play the instrument long ago, he always leaves it in its case in my room whenever I come to stay."

He got up, and after a short absence, returned with the 'cello. His guests hastened to relieve him of his burden, and gathered round to examine it and pass their comments. Wilhelm alone had not risen. He was back in the huge arm-chair, which he had vacated for no more than a minute to fetch the lute. Now he said very softly to Diana:

"No one is going to take this chair from me this evening, after what he said about them—unless, of course, you have a fancy for it, Diana."

His gentle considerateness went to her heart. She felt sundered from Eduard, wounded by Kyril, disturbed by the course the talk had taken; she had more and more cut herself adrift from them all, giving herself up to her own train of thought as she gazed into the darkness without, and was dimly aware from time to time of the lap of waters, the emergent lights, and the cadenced calls, arising from the canal below. The boyish words spoken to her by the young man lounging in the easy chair had fallen with so friendly a lilt upon her ear that she was grateful. Franklin's image rose before her, and she wondered why he had stayed away, whether he dreaded being together with her and her father; then, again, her thoughts turned to the prince.

Meanwhile Kyril had possessed himself of the 'cello, had sat down, tuned it, and had become wholly absorbed in the instrument.

"Will you play something?" asked Scherer.

"Alone?"

"Wilhelm's lute will replace the piano as accompaniment."

Every one was delighted. Wilhelm, who could not read music, playing by ear and adapting his accompaniment to almost any song, agreed to do his best, but insisted he be allowed to remain seated where he was in the "revolutionist's chair" as he called it. Kyril exchanged with the prince so as to sit more commodiously with the instrument. He glanced with misgivings at Wilhelm and the lute; then, without preface or explanation, started to play Bach's suite for 'cello. Wilhelm, who knew it well, was too alarmed to venture an accompaniment. He would not dare to make up something out of his own head to music such as this. So he laid his lute aside. Kyril glanced up for a moment, looked his appreciation, and continued to play alone. As the mellow tones fell into the quietude of this warm spring night, Diana sat up and turned towards the player. At first her blood surged wrathfully through her veins, as if she had been touched with a fencing foil. Then the music subjected her to its mighty melodies. She sat very straight on her low stool, her black shawl slipping unheeded from her shoulders.

The music penetrated her whole being, sapping her combativeness, and luring her eyes to the figure of the Russian as he played his 'cello in the ruddy glow of the lamp. She saw his powerful right hand wielding the bow, the fingers of his left, agile and dexterous, drawing vibrant notes from the strings, his muscular legs pressing the red-brown wood between his knees, and, silhouetted against the carved back of a chair once occupied by a Venetian nobleman, the fair head of a fanatical Russian peasant bent over the instrument as if over a woman he held against him while with his right hand he caressed her to responsiveness and with his left he toyed with her curving throat....

Eduard was all too aware of her absorption in the man who was ravishing the company with his music, and at this minute he would gladly have exchanged the realm of his father and his brothers for the spiriting of his fiddle to his side that he might pit his musicianship against this alien's.

A long silence followed upon the final notes of the suite, broken at last by Wilhelm, who said: "I'm sorry, but I really could not give you any assistance in that. I had thought you were going to give us some Chopin."

They laughed at the speaker's naïve excuses, and the host together with Scherer and Eduard, gave voice to their appreciation. But Diana, awaking as it were from a spell, rose and stepped out on to the balcony, shaking off the magic which had bound her and to which she had surrendered against her will. She leaned for a moment against the iron balustrade, then turned, and, stretching her arms towards the glass door (a gesture which suggested a longing to embrace this evening so pregnant with melancholy) picked up the wrap which had fallen from her shoulders, saying:

"Wilhelm is right! The day itself and all the ardours of the sun are in your playing—and yet here we are encompassed by night."

Kyril looked at her, and in his heart he told himself that what she said was true, for through the medium of music every hesitancy of the spirit was revealed to him who, in theory, denied that any such insight existed. He began playing Chopin's nocturne in E-flat major, and Wilhelm accompanied him throughout, while Diana stood leaning upon the rail of the balcony gazing down on the darkened water.

"All this is good," thought she. "So is this town, and my father, and the prince, and Wilhelm. So, too, maybe is the Russian at times. And even if things are to be otherwise in the future, yet for tonight I will that they be as they are!"

Soon after this the party broke up, for the yacht was to put to sea at peep of day. Wassilko stopped Diana when she reached the middle of the great room, and, taking her face between his hands, he kissed his daughter on the top of her head. The four men watched him in silence: Scherer and Wilhelm as if they were assisting at a ceremony which they would, undoubtedly, have performed better than any of those who were present; Kyril with vague recollections of the Russian parental blessing; Eduard once again with the feeling that his own father was before him, his father, kissing Diana.

Their farewells were more genial than their greetings had been, and yet there was something aloof in the manner of the four men as they bade their host good-night. They divided forces as they approached the two gondolas, the prince pairing off with Diana while Scherer and Kyril took their places in the other boat. Wilhelm stood hesitant on the landing-stage, pondering the alternatives: should he please Scherer by stepping into the foremost boat and thus preventing the prince and Diana from being alone, or should he please Eduard by leaving the field free? Scherer, guessing his dilemma, was determined to bring no pressure to bear upon the young man's decision. Finally Diana signalled to him her wish to have the prince all to herself, and so it was that Wilhelm sprang in beside Scherer. He instantly struck up one of those light-hearted ditties that are the rage in Venice, and make one feel they must have been composed in Vicenza, so gay and debonair is their lilt. Old Mary, in company with one of the yacht's crew, followed in a third gondola.

"Shall I tell him to stop?" asked Eduard softly.

"Oh no! It is sweet to hear his lute over the water...."

"Is Herr von Wassilko a good player?"

"His heart plays well, but his fingers are clumsy and out of practice."

"And yet they were dextrous enough when it was a question of bringing ancient statues out of the earth...."

"Yes, and glass-ware too; that's a far more delicate business."

"He seems more vigorous than my father, and yet is much the same age."

"Is the prince still ailing? Have you any news of his health?"

She was never the one to start a conversation about his relatives, always waiting for him to begin.

"He has been in a precarious condition ever since my mother died. I have not much confidence either in the bulletins or in his doctor," said Eduard softly, turning away.

"I, too, love my father," murmured Diana.

Eduard, profoundly moved by her unuttered thought, again reminded of the scenes he had witnessed on the steps of the museum and in the room at the moment of farewell, seized her hand as it lay in her lap. She made no protest, and he whispered her name: "Diana..."

He had never yet called her by name, and now, very slowly, he bent his head and kissed her hand, pressing his lips to it long and tenderly.

"How gentle are this young man's kisses," she mused. "I would like to kiss him... Yet he is silent, and seems to be enclosing me in a great circle ... slowly... Behind us, in our wake, Wilhelm trills his song of love, as if life were nothing but an Eden of amoretti, short-kilted in pale blue raiment... Have I dreamed all this before?..."

And, as if the prince had drunk in her reverie through the pores of her bronzed skin, he raised his head, still holding her hand in his, and leaned back once more among the black cushions, saying dreamily, as if musing on things long past:

"One night we were in a gondola together, and, for the first time, I called you by your name ... Diana... Do you remember? It was the same evening that your father had entertained us at his rooms. The Russian had tried to draw him into a discussion on Swedenborg ... that fair-haired Russian who was born on the same day as I ... He plays Bach as only a man can play... Is he still alive? ... Has he been hanged? ... Scherer, too, was one of the party, young still, and hospitable and active ... Wilhelm played and sang in a gondola that followed us, a song about a Venetian woman and her lout of a husband and her handsome cousin... It was amid this queer medley of voyaging, do you recollect? ... The 'Excelsior' ... and the journey was not yet at an end..."

"And as we passed by the Piazzetta," Diana took up the tale in the same key, as she, too, leaned back among the cushions, "the two giants were just striking the clock in the tower to the leftward, for it was midnight... But the journey was not yet at an end... Do you remember, Prince?"

They were very still, hand lay in hand, but they did not turn to look at one another. Then, close in the rear of San Marco, the gondola swung round a bend, and the lights of the "Excelsior" shone through the darkness.

The prince sprang on to the gangway and helped her up. At the top, he kissed her hand. Diana turned, and bade good-night to the others who had followed close on her heels.

BOOK SIX

CHAPTER ONE

Three wide terraces sloped downwards towards the sea, thrusting forward into the waters. On the centre one of these terraces, beneath a straw-thatched roof supported on bamboo canes, lay Olivia in a long wicker chair, her light-coloured dress contrasting with the brown-and-white fur stretched out beneath her, which she had thrust here and there, as fancy dictated, into the interstices of the wickerwork. She had turned away from the light, and was gazing eastward, where the sky was aflame with the reflected glow of the sunset. Then, from her eyrie, she looked down towards the bay and the little grey town on its shores, and it was as if all the legendary lore that had grown up around the castle of her Dalmatian forefathers in the course of centuries were gathered into one vast legend, embodied in herself alone. Her mien was threatening rather than pensive; her eyes domineering and gloomy as she stared at the huddled houses below, which sheltered a hundred poverty-stricken fisherfolk—who, dumb and sullen, continued to tolerate the yoke of servitude imposed by her ancestors. She felt very much alone; but she was not alone. A girl of sixteen was sitting near by on a low stool. Her hair was golden like Olivia's, but not with so dazzling a sheen; her eyes had the tranquil look of unawakened maidenhood, her lips were full, but innocent; she looked like a young madonna, entrancing with the promise of womanhood. Her hands were clasped behind her head, and her eyes were fixed on the western sky where the colours lingered, though the sun had set. Without a desire in her heart, she sat contemplating the fiery interplay of sky and sea, merely enjoying the spectacle before it vanished, gratifying the natural instinct of her youth. But the big woman's gaze was full of anger as the evening closed around them.

Maria, who was almost young enough to be Olivia's daughter, had been reading aloud and a book lay within reach of her hand. It was a dishevelled and forlorn little object, as its pages fluttered in the breeze now blowing from the sea. Ever since Gregor's death had given her back her freedom, and had simultaneously condemned her to a life of solitude once more, Olivia had taken to reading again; yet she harboured a peculiar kind of hostility within her against the books of her own choice. Her searching, restless heart, wearied with the habits of her class, found no comfort in the tale of the doings of imaginary characters. She had hoped to read studies of free people, but found that their lives, too, were involved in inextricable tangles.

Olivia had returned to her ancestral hall with the coming of spring, and her mother (a worldly and vigorous lady) had started for Rome two days after the daughter's return, intending to enjoy a few weeks of society life. Olivia had herself proposed the journey to her mother in one of her letters, hoping thereby to shorten the period of their life together that summer.

So long as she had the old castle to herself Olivia found it a beautiful refuge. But when her mother took it into her head to fill it with Dalmatian nobility (as she purposed to do this year with a special end in view) the place became intolerable. To dream away the hot days lazing on the broad terraces, very slightly disturbed by her son's little friends who came and went; to take a leisurely bathe in the blue waters of the bay; to lie about a great deal; in the morning to gaze westward, and as day drew to an end to turn and contemplate the eastern sky; occasionally to read a strange and fascinating book; it was thus she had thought to pass her time till the end of June, undisturbed, save for the company of this young niece whose quiet ways she loved, and whose gentle fingers proved to be strong and supple when, seated at the piano, she would play a fugue of Bach or a chaconne. And when on retiring to bed Olivia kissed the girl good-night, she would inhale the subtle aroma of womanly locks, and feel her pulses stir uneasily in never-satisfied expectation.

The bay was usually calm; from time to time fishing boats would furrow its waters, trailing the long nets homeward with the morning catch; twice a week the steamer from Trieste would put in to shore, or, if by chance the sea was agitated, the captain would send the dinghy instead, for every one eagerly awaited the mail-bag. These afternoons Olivia was disinclined to spend out of doors, for her untamed, undisciplined nature resented having to wait and to keep a lookout, and the steamer never arrived at a definite hour. Every other day in the week she could lie on the terrace in perfect security, knowing that nothing was likely to arrive from the outer world and establish a claim upon her against her will.

It was, therefore, with a feeling of alarm rather than of joy that she now saw, rounding the point in the gloaming, the nose of a vessel, which soon revealed itself to be a white ship. She called softly to the girl beside her:

"Maria."

Startled by this unusual interruption of the silence which she knew her aunt loved, the young girl swung round, and, as she turned, she, too, caught sight of the vessel.

"A ship," she cried, "a white ship! It is not one of ours—and she's turning round!"

"What do you mean?"

"She's changing her course, she's making for land, they are going to come ashore!"

The girl ran to the railing.

Olivia, too, rose and moved towards the edge of the terrace, but before she reached it the voice of her little son came to her from below, calling eagerly up to her and her companion.

"Mamma! Maria! There's a cutter in our bay. I'll run down to the harbour, I must see it close...."

The household bestirred itself, there was much talking and guessing, and when, half an hour later, a sailor under Clemens's somewhat imperious leadership handed Olivia a note, she guessed at once who had landed on the shores of her little realm.

"My dear Countess, Prince Eduard was informed while we were in Venice that you had returned home. The 'Excelsior' is lying in your bay, but we still have steam up, so that you may feel quite at liberty to say if our advent is inopportune. In that case we will run up a flag in salute, its message being: Au revoir. If, however, we shall not be a burden upon you or upon the princess, your mother, we can be with you in an hour.

"SCHERER"

They had planned to stay a couple of days but to make the yacht their headquarters as far as sleeping and feeding were concerned, for they could imagine the confusion the unexpected arrival of five guests would cause in this sleepy little household. Scherer, even as he proposed this arrangement, had secretly hoped the party would veto it, for he would willingly have entered upon more commodious quarters than the yacht could offer. Since that early morning talk as they lay outside Leucas his spirit had been casting new and ever renewed circles around Diana, and when, two evenings ago, the prince had paired off in so determined a manner with her in the gondola, Scherer had resolutely tightened the net. He felt his senses more and more stirred as he perceived that she and the prince were drawing together. Kyril's silent observation had the effect of making her appear more desirable than ever. He had been rather surprised when both Eduard and Kyril acquiesced in his proposal, and could not help wondering whether they, too, had secret fears of what the freer intercourse ashore might entail, and had therefore elected to remain together on the yacht.

The meeting at the castle was as natural and simple as could be; it seemed as if they had all been parted for no more than a couple of weeks. That Olivia's mother was away made the company feel more at ease; and Maria, to whom all of them were strangers, immediately made friends with Wilhelm, who, at the very first handshake, laid his heart at her feet. Being the youngest of the grown-ups, he was seized upon by Clemens, who was attracted to a man whom his elders called a poet, and with childlike impatience the boy insisted on dragging Wilhelm away from the rest of the party. Thus it was that Maria, Clemens, and Wilhelm sped gaily away, a trio of youthful freshness and innocence.

Kyril and Olivia felt hostile towards one another at their first encounter. Reserved, cold, and ardent, as they both were at bottom, they exercised that inimical attraction for each other which serves as a bond between persons who temperamentally mistrust happy encounters. It was not in error, but by malice aforethought, that the Russian insisted on addressing her as "Your Highness," as if he were resolved not to let her forget her royal descent. Defiance severed these two from the rest of the cheerful company, and welded them together against their will. The situation at once became apparent. During one of the first walks in the park, whose shelving terraces had been cut out of the mountain face, and along which little paths zigzagged up the steep acclivity, Scherer had said to the prince:

"Have you noticed? The countess, too, never laughs."

"Had she not been born in a castle, our Russian friend would find a way to make her open her lips. He'd only have to show his own fine set of teeth!"

"And all this is yours," exclaimed Wilhelm with the gracious gesture of a king of balladry, embracing in the sweep of his arm the whole of Dalmatia. He was flanked on either side by Maria and Clemens, the three of them dancing lightly along well ahead of the others. "And to think we can explore the whole place to our hearts' content! Are there many quails and lizards? Let's have a hunt! Now!"

"It's getting too dark," said Maria demurely, although she would have loved to begin the search at once. Clemens was quick to feel how he was to deport himself in respect of the other two.

"We have some with blue heads," he said, as if speaking of his subjects. "They live in our grottoes above the seashore. It's an awfully difficult climb to get to them, but I've climbed up twice, with Giro."

"Let's take Giro along with us tomorrow morning," suggested Wilhelm, wondering who Giro might be.

"I will order him to be at the Rocco Grande at six o'clock without fail," said Clemens grandiloquently.

"He'll not be back from the fishing grounds at six," put in Maria.

"When we have guests, he does not need to go fishing," said Clemens decisively.

Diana, at the outset, had joined Kyril and Olivia in the dark avenue of ancient yews. But the stuffiness under the thick arches of the trees and the oppressive silence of her companions made her break away into a gayer atmosphere. Thus it was that she had overheard the amusing braggadocio of the little boy who was the son of her dead friend. She sought some likeness to his father in the lad's countenance, and, drawing him towards her, said, swinging the hand he had clasped in hers to and fro:

"But what shall we do if there's nothing to eat, Clemens?"

The boy, hitherto absorbed in Wilhelm, whose droll ways attracted and pleased him greatly, had not taken any notice of his mother's other friends. Now, hearing himself directly addressed, he looked up at Diana, and suddenly recognized her as a lady who had come to tea with his mother at the embassy. And yet his recollection of her was somewhat blurred, for two years had passed since then.

"We have heaps of fish, you know. A whole lot of fish in the larder." Torn between perplexity and arrogance, he lied with the utmost assurance. Then adroitly changing the subject: "D'you know I've got a boat! Have you seen my boat?"

He pulled vigorously at the lower ends of his short breeks as if to make trousers out of them—had he not besought his grandmother for a year and more to allow him to wear trousers? Only since his mother's return had she prevailed upon the princess to concede the boy's urgent request. The trousers had been ordered, but they were a long time coming, and here were these strangers—of course they chose today for their visit—and he was still in shorts. Was it any wonder this beautiful lady should address him by name? Clemens, indeed! Just as if he were a kid!

Diana was struck by the lad's question: Have you seen my boat? Were not those the very words Gregor had spoken, Clemens's father, so cheekily and gaily, so wilfully and yet so shyly? She sensed instinctively that the boy wished her to treat him no longer as a child; yet she wanted him precisely to give her a child's trust, and not the homage of a youth, since he was not yet old enough for that.

"Where is your boat? Ah, of course, it'll be at the landing-stage, near the 'Excelsior'!"

"Is that the name of your yacht? The 'Excelsior'?"

"Yes. But it belongs to Herr Scherer."

"Then you are not—I thought..."

"No, I am not his wife; what made you think so?"

"It just looked as if you must be, when you arrived."

"His instinct makes him astute," thought Diana; "for if I were the wife of any man in our party, surely Scherer is the most likely mate."

"Just give me a good look, Clemens," she said; "see if you can't recognize who I am."

She stopped in the middle of the path, and the youngster turned face about. They had come to a bend in the path, and while they stood thus inspecting one another, the other walkers had room to pass. Wilhelm and Maria went slowly by, and Diana heard the poet say: "We shall probably cruise about for another week, but I can land wherever I please...."

"That would be jolly," answered Maria.

Then Clemens was speaking.

"Yes, perhaps I do, but I'm not sure," and he fidgeted from one foot to the other. "Weren't you at the embassy once when my father was still alive?"

The boy no longer says Papa as in those days, thought Diana. Death and fate have turned Gregor into Father! Ah, those were Gregor's very eyes, the ne'er-do-well, the deceiver.

She forgot to answer.

"Park with groups," she suddenly heard the prince say, for he and Scherer had now reached the bend where she and the boy were standing. But she sensed that in his heart he was saying: Even today, through the medium of the son, that man's image is still alive in her heart—ineradicable.

"Yes," she found herself answering, "yes, I was at your house once. And now, shall we go and find your mother? How do you like that man over there."

"That is Prince Eduard. He used to be with us at the embassy." The child spoke as if he were commending a bailiff to her attention.

"No, not that one. I mean the man who is walking with the countess."

Clemens, who had been feeling embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken, was relieved to find that it was Wilhelm Diana was referring to. His tone became livelier on the instant.

"He ought to remain here with us. He's just the man we want, for he's never shy, and he isn't so very old, and I'm sure he's not a nobleman."

His choice of words, his tone, the gesture with which he smoothed his hair, all were reminiscent of Gregor, Gregor as he must have been before he had earned the nickname "mad Münsterberg." "Because he's never shy ... and I'm sure he's not a nobleman." Diana smiled.

Meanwhile Olivia and Kyril had come to a standstill. The countess had an innate repugnance to doing the honours of her ancestral home, to showing guests round in the approved manner of an obliging hostess; while Kyril was not one to ask the questions appropriate to his rôle as guest; they had, therefore, strolled along in silence ever since Diana had cut herself loose from their company. One question only had dropped from Kyril's lips:

"You know Fräulein Wassilko?"

To which Olivia had answered:

"Yes, I know her."

Her velvety alto came as a beautiful counterpart to his deep baritone.

But that was as far as they got, and these two, who so heartily disdained the conventions of society, were grateful to each other for such abstinence. Now, however, they had reached the end of the winding path, and had before them a series of steps and terraces upon which Olivia was unwilling to embark until the rest of the party had rejoined her. Negligent hostess though she was, even she felt it might not be seemly to proceed farther without at least pointing out the most hoary of the ancestral towers to her guests, for this was always the culminating point of interest to strangers. Every one was now assembled on the green before the walls, and Clemens saved his mother the trouble of speaking by acting as guide, pattering a few dates and names, without much cohesion in the tale he was telling. Scherer's accurate mind rebelled against such vagueness, and he insisted on more precise information, endeavouring to disentangle the stories of two knights, and in the end turning amicably to Kyril who had been listening the while with an expression of superlative contempt to the confused narration.

"After all, my dear Doctor, we cannot unmake the events by denying them, any more than we can take what beauty there is in them away by being cynical," said Scherer in conciliatory vein.

"All superfluous," commented Kyril dryly.

"I find this giant growth of ivy wholly charming," said the prince, who always came to the rescue with banter when a situation threatened to become too romantic. "And so far as the robber forefathers of Master Clemens are concerned, whose history has just been told us with so much lucidity and interest, they were at bottom no worse than any of our own ancestors—unless, of course, Dr. Sergievitch can prove the contrary."

"I shall have great-grandchildren," said the Russian; "I have no ancestors."

"Your ambition, then, is to be an ancestor yourself?"

"My grandchildren will have to forget me, just as I have forgotten my forbears. Deeds alone are lasting, not names, nor pictures."

"Simplicity personified: no oil paintings, no photographs," snapped the prince.

"Deeds?" The clear voice broke into the conversation like a clarion call. "Did these robber knights, then, perform no deeds?" It was Diana who spoke, coldly and challengingly.

"Nothing but adventures," retorted Kyril, from the opposite side of the circle the company had grouped itself into. His manner equalled hers for coldness, and he frowned as he spoke. "Those who played the vagabond in their day, like these Dalmatian nobles, without an idea in their heads, may serve as forefathers to a line of descendants and have the memory of their deeds preserved in an ancestral tower. But we, today, do not wish to work merely for a castle or for a family. We are working for the whole of humanity, Fräulein Wassilko."

"Car tel est notre plaisir!" Diana tossed the phrase across the circle, as if she were desirous of unveiling the inner meaning of his words by the quotation of a tyrant's dictum.

She turned on her heel, and the assembly broke up into groups, continuing down the steps and the terraces which led to the inhabited parts of the castle. Maria, somewhat alarmed at the asperity in Diana's tone, looked up at Wilhelm inquiringly: "Who is—the young lady?"

"I don't know," answered Wilhelm humbly. "In the end she always comes out victor."

Clemens marched along at their side, cudgelling his brains to remember which of the French kings had said those words. "I read about him only the other day," the boy said to himself. "In my history book.... Who could it have been?"

Olivia followed with Scherer.

"What concern of ours are the deeds of these robbers?" she asked gloomily. "Far better were it to be descended from peasant forefathers."

"It's precisely because he is the son of a peasant stock, that this Russian is so arrogant."

"And he is really a bandit," chimed in the prince who was following close at their heels in company with Diana.

"The Russian?"

"The knight!"

"But this Russian can't be allowed to play the high priest and cast my life in my teeth!" Olivia spoke so acrimoniously that the prince felt he must do something to conciliate her. With deliberate mendacity he shouldered the Russian's implied blame, as he said:

"His reproaches were aimed at us, not at you."

Diana, amazed at such a friendly deception coming from Eduard, turned to him radiantly, asking:

"How now, prince, do you mean to tell us that you, too, have had adventures?"

CHAPTER TWO

By the time they had returned next day from a ramble along the cliffs, Wilhelm had completely won over the heart of the boy, while Maria had conquered his own. A youth with a taste for adventure, inclined to search out the bizarre and the unfamiliar in nature and in man—this native of the South German highlands, born far from the sea, had during his first sea voyage gained acquaintance with some of the marvels of sea life, and (immune to the conventional pleasures of a voyage) had adapted himself to what conformed with his own predisposition. Having read in a story of sea life something about great lizards, he felt sure that they would have their habitat on the very coast where fate had now beguiled him. And in truth they were there where he expected to find them. It was as if a benevolent deity were unwilling to disappoint the young innocent in any of his hopes.

Indeed, Wilhelm was never disappointed. His youth had been passed alternately in the company of artists, of persons temporarily visiting the town, and of the peasants in his village at home, the peasant folk from whom he had sprung. He had never made any claims on life, for his wishes were visionary ones, incapable of realization in the world of every day. Half musician, and half poet, he wandered penniless through life and through many a countryside. One day he would rise from board with tourists in Florence, for his charming personality and a talent for acting as guide often made him one of a cheerful company for weeks at a stretch; the next day he would find hospitable welcome in a peasant's shanty at Carreggi, because he had sat down to teach the cottar's children to play the lute. He was usually deferential where women were concerned, so long as they were not ugly or old; and he was content if he could merely stroke a gloved hand while driving along in a carriage. But with English girls, who wanted all they could get from love without running any of the risks, he was not backward; indeed he was more cruel at times than he realized, for he would indite little poems full of innuendoes and ambiguities, which of an evening he read aloud to the parents and admirers of the young ladies. Back again in his native hills, he had no scruples in passing the night with a village maid, for he had a nice appreciation of the different spheres into which his birth and upbringing brought him.

Maria made a strong appeal to his nature, partly because she was still almost a child, but also because of her maidenliness. He toyed with these two aspects with delicate hands, and found Clemens a useful buffer in his manipulations. The lad himself was wont to feel that he and the girl were much of an age, but since Wilhelm, who was their senior, made proposals which in the ordinary course Clemens would have disdained as childish and lacking in dignity, the boy was willing to lend himself to his guest's suggestions lest, by refusing, he should appear babyish. Maria, on the other hand, so recently emerging from her childhood, was thrown back into that period by these light-hearted games; she lent herself agreeably to the stranger's will, telling herself it was all a huge joke, and Wilhelm's homage no more than that of a nice boy. So it was that the three of them crept in and out of damp caves, and the imp in Wilhelm so arranged matters that shoes and stockings had to be discarded, and that he should give a hand to the girl as they scrambled barefoot over the stones. Maria blushed, and that was balm to Wilhelm's heart. Clemens grasped the significance of no more than a part of this by-play; but he understood enough to make him react in boyish fashion. He would try to frighten her by suddenly disappearing—but he never stayed so long away as to give Wilhelm time to snatch a kiss. The knight in Clemens and his position as heir to these estates and as cousin made him fully conscious of his responsibilities.

That same forenoon Diana sat with Olivia in the spacious sitting-room, a square, vaulted chamber in one of the towers, giving from three sides on to the sea, but with its windows usually shuttered in conformity with the countess's preference for a dim light. Wanton sunbeams, however, defied her precautions, and took advantage of every crack and hole in the blue painted wood to send their radiant shafts across the darkness—a symbol of her own soul, as Olivia liked to think.

Leaning on her elbow as was her habit, her limbs stretched out on the wide ottoman, Olivia looked over to where Diana sat. Her ardent eyes burned with increasing fire, the longer she was condemned to gaze upon the arena of the passions. These two women had little use for the small change of conversation.

"You are quite brown, Diana; and yet you spent the whole winter in town, cooped up in rooms."

"It's the sea. I've been three weeks cruising."

"In twenty years, living upon this coast, I remained white."

"And is it not lovelier to be white and to have golden hair?"

"Atalanta!"

Olivia sank back upon the divan, gazing up towards the vaulted ceiling, for she wanted to call forth again the vision of the Diana she had seen that evening in Berlin, a vision which had seemed to express the fullest possibilities of the young woman's being. But to conjure up this picture she must not have Diana's actual form before her eyes.

"To be able to personify a goddess," she murmured, "to discover thus early one's own essential shape, and to be able to fill out its structure unto completion.... O blessed freedom...."

Diana was thinking: "How fiercely she strives and seeks; yet she is excluded from the realm of enjoyment so soon as her dreams become reality!"

"Have not you, too, since then gained something of freedom?" Diana asked.

With unwonted alacrity, Olivia replied passionately:

"Not as freedom! They all have a home; Maria, her hopes; my mother, this castle; Scherer, his newspapers; the Russian, his ideas; and Gregor—well, he wavered between deeds and adventures, and was at home in both. But you have chosen the world! Yes, you, Diana, among all the persons I have met, you alone are worthy to regard the great dome of the firmament (at which I have so often gazed as at something vacuous and inimical) as the roof of your ancestral home. That is why you are so fond of the stars!"

She spoke angrily and moodily, her eyes turned earthward, her chin resting in her palms as she leaned upon her elbows.

"Are not dreams, too, a home?" asked Diana softly.

"I want to get away; it is high time I did so; indeed, there is not a moment to be lost. How well I understand Herr Franklin's erratic behaviour. He refuses any longer to let his fancy roam; he is resolved to be up and doing, accomplishing something visible and tangible—though deep in his inner self he knows well enough that it is vanity and deception, and less than a dream.... Well, I too want a home; love shall be my roof-tree, and then, quaffing one final draught, I shall sink back into my dreams as if I had never forsaken them!"

She rose while she was yet speaking, and, quite contrary to her wont, paced up and down the room. Suddenly she stood still, surprised at the sound she heard. Diana was laughing! It was a quiet, short, two-syllabled ripple of laughter, and was repeated a second, then a third time. Olivia wanted to scold. Then, taking heart, for the little metallic music gave her back her courage, she stepped up to Diana and said:

"You are laughing, O most wise Diana, and that does not become a youthful huntress!"

She stood before Diana, leaning forward, her two hands on the arm of the chair, her face very near that of the seated woman. Diana looked up, unperturbed; nor did she try to still the laughter that was still lighting her countenance.

"You have at last spoken as I have so long been hoping to hear you speak, my beautiful Olivia." And as the words fell from her lips she was thinking: I should like to kiss her now; but then she'd be furious or she'd withdraw into her shell.

Slowly Olivia raised her head with its heavy crown of golden hair, and, as she stood before her guest, she said irrelevantly:

"I believe I want to have more children."

"I've been thinking the same thing ever since I met you again."

Olivia had opened her heart to Diana with unwonted candour. She, like Diana, was not a woman who could make friends with other members of her sex. And yet, today, she had confided in another woman! Diana's tranquil statement made Olivia feel that here was a person of superior strength, and, forgetting her own preoccupations for a moment, she asked:

"And what about yourself—do you still hesitate?"

Behind the question, Diana sensed a growing distrust, and she said to herself: "It's just as well I did not kiss her just now!" Still, she did not shirk an answer:

"I have never gone against nature, and I have always felt that those above, who guard me and protect me, will not deal harshly with me."

"Do you believe in the saints?" asked Olivia, somewhat awed, and coming a step nearer.

"In the gods," corrected Diana softly.

"Is this Russian a believer?" asked Olivia, once more without transition.

"I fancy he loves no one but himself."

"No one but himself," echoed Olivia, and Diana felt instinctively that the countess was comparing him with her own self, and was applying the words to herself.

"And the prince?"

Olivia seemed to be questioning the oracle.

"The prince appears to be a believer, after his fashion. Perhaps he is the first knight who is not at the same time a robber!"

Olivia's mind, awakened to fresh issues, because for the first time in her life she had spoken her thoughts out frankly, did not take in Diana's last words. Again she spoke irrelevantly.

"All these men are more or less in love with you! And yet you can cruise about alone with them on a ship. If I did not know what you had done with Gregor, I'd fancy you were as cold as the sea."

Diana got up.

"Let us clearly understand one another," said she resolutely. "Not one of these men is of so much account to me that, if the 'Excelsior' sailed tomorrow, he might not stay behind in this castle for all I cared."

The unusual bluntness with which she spoke was deliberate for she wished to adapt herself to Olivia's unsocial prejudices. But Olivia, whose heart had beat tumultuously since first she had thrust aside the veils of her inner sanctuary that morning, again did the unexpected, for she seized Diana's hand, saying:

"There is but one person to my knowledge who should not sail away in the 'Excelsior' tomorrow. Give me your promise! Clemens, too, is uneasy at the thought that you and Wilhelm may go away."

"Clemens will forget me in this affection for Wilhelm; and you will do the same in your love for Clemens. He is handsome and chivalrous, and in a short while will become your admirer!"

Olivia turned her face away.

"He'll learn about love from a serving-wench in a year or two!"

There was a knock at the door, and, when Olivia petulantly cried "Come in," Eduard appeared upon the threshold.

"That sounded more like 'Go away,' as in the Magic Flute! This dim religious light is also quite in keeping."

"Come in, Prince, come in," cried Olivia, still impatiently.

"Yes, do come in," added Diana. "The countess was just deploring the fact that Clemens before long will learn about love from a serving-wench."

"What is a dutiful son to do, seeing that in the castles of the mighty the only females he meets with are young women of noble birth (who are taboo so far as illicit experience is concerned), and serving-wenches?"

"It's all a matter of nerves, Prince. So far as my own feelings are concerned I should prefer, in this case, that it should be a girl of noble birth!"

"But suppose he should promise you," said Eduard teasingly, "to lead her to the altar, the more or less, let it be less, pure serving-wench: you would have to embrace this peasant as a daughter, Countess."

"I am not your Russian friend, Prince Eduard," retorted Olivia coldly.

"Of course a confirmed bachelor has no right to discuss such matters as the upbringing of children," Eduard continued. "Just as if the mere fact of becoming a father instantly conferred the necessary knowledge! Should I, nevertheless, venture to express an opinion before you ladies I should say: I, as the mother of a handsome boy, would, as soon as he was seventeen, or, for greater security, when he was sixteen years of age, request the handsomest among my women friends to initiate the youngster into the mysteries of Venus."

Olivia turned towards him with animation:

"How often have I not had the same idea. But our social institutions sap a woman's strength of mind, so that she cannot venture on such a course—though she may often have dreamed she had the courage as she sat alone in the gloaming."

She glanced over to where Diana stood in her short linen dress, which shimmered white in the shadowy room. The prince, too, under shelter of the darkness, shot a meaning look at Diana, implying that she alone had been in his thoughts as he spoke, and that he, Prince Eduard, was the lad of sixteen under the alias of Clemens, Count of Münsterberg. Diana well understood the meaning which underlay his words, and, facing the eyes of those who, with silent eloquence, obviously looked upon her as a predestined victim chosen as a sacrifice upon the altar of beauty, she felt that they were trying to rivet chains upon her, to force a line of action upon her, instead of leaving her to follow the magnetic promptings of her own nature.

As if in answer to these challenging eyes, she suddenly turned about towards the window near which she was standing, and, with an impetuous gesture, flung the shutters wide. A cataract of light came flooding into the room. Olivia turned away her eyes; Eduard stood there, blinking his, as if frightened.

"High tide," cried Diana. "The wind is blowing fresh from the nor'east, and there's a heavy swell. It's not so very hot yet. Come, Olivia! You promised you'd come along for a bathe!"

An hour later, Wilhelm's little group joined company with Scherer and Kyril, who had been spending the early hours of the forenoon aboard. They all made for the sheltered cove at the foot of the cliff whereon the castle was perched. The party as it assembled for the morning dip was not so much at its ease as the candour of some of its members and the education of the others might have led one to suppose. Olivia and Maria, in their rather full bathing costumes, looked more mundane than the former wished or the latter suspected herself to appear. The men were used to the water and were all of them swimmers. Wilhelm, to whom sea bathing was a new experience, hesitated at the edge of the waves; from time to time he would assume the most comical postures as he hunted for crabs or starfish in the shallow pools; he would exclaim with delight at his finds, so absorbed in his discoveries that even Maria slipped from his mind, and he became wholly unconscious of the presence of women. The prince's ironical habit of mind led him to make mischievous comments anent the other men's figures to Olivia as she lay basking in the sun while her niece cuddled down at her side rather bashfully. Scherer was his usual courteous self, holding himself gallantly, but not failing to appreciate the contrast between the voluptuous curves of Olivia's form and the slender grace of the maiden at her side—though Maria's figure proved to be more developed than he had supposed, and better in keeping with her full young lips. But his gaze did not linger; he soon betook himself to the task in hand, striking out through the water with virile energy.

Diana, Kyril, and Clemens simultaneously disappeared beneath the waves, and simultaneously their heads bobbed up again, greatly to the surprise of all three of them, for they had not seen one another enter the water. Indeed, Diana, in her closely fitting dress had sped so swiftly down the shore that hardly any had caught a glimpse of her as she flashed by. All three appeared for the first time to be in their appropriate element. Eduard, who was not a practiced swimmer, and who, moreover, was more amused by the erotic play of word and look afforded him on the shore, gave up trying to emulate the trio almost before he had begun. Scherer soon followed suit, and Wilhelm's world for the moment consisted entirely of marine fauna.

A sentiment of twofold liberation had invaded Diana's whole being after the ambiguous words spoken in the darkened room. The sea appeared to her pure, and free from all impulsive contamination, a mirror of light, and she was glad and not a little proud to be able to leave the mockers behind her on the beach. Clemens dived and somersaulted, excited to exhibit his prowess by the proximity of a young and beautiful woman, who watched his feats with gay, admiring eyes. In boyish merriment he splashed water at her, invited her to dance, kicked up his heels, spluttered, and cried out jubilantly amid the foam. At last his antics nearly deprived him of voice, so that his joyous screams became fainter.

In Kyril, Diana was surprised to find the perfect swimmer. For the third time she was to witness this man doing something in which he excelled; and for many seconds her thoughts went back to the evening when he played the 'cello with so masterly a cunning. Although her alert intelligence loved to pit itself against the intelligence of men, and gained by the rivalry, it was the physical quality of the male, that which was perceptible by the senses, which stirred her blood; and for this reason she was apt to decide her attitude towards a man before ever he had opened his lips to speak. To withstand the strength of the waves as they flooded towards the land, impelled forward by the breeze from the north-east, to know when to yield and when to push through them; now to be carried on the crest of a billow without striking a stroke, and to let one's body be drawn into the furrow of the wave; without a word, to shoot through the next when it threatens to break over one's head; now to lie on one's back, propelling oneself forward with the legs alone; now again diving through the mighty swells, resisting their weight, judging their dimensions, so as not to emerge prematurely—how well Diana knew the art! Her admiration for the Russian's mastery was far greater than the man himself would have tolerated had he guessed that it existed.

And yet, with the instinct of a man aware of his own prowess, Kyril had felt beforehand that while bathing he would show to advantage in the eyes of this extravagant, luxury-loving creature, and thus win the admiration which she seemed to withhold from his intellectual gifts. It was for this reason that he had once before, when they visited Leucas, proposed a bathe. On that occasion the elements had made it impossible to carry out, for the wind seemed likely to drop at any moment, and they wished to profit by every instant it lasted in order to sail among the Ionian islands. In so far as he was aware that under present circumstances he was pleasing to Diana, his own regard for her increased; for, ever since he had first clapped eyes on her, the evening when she had posed as Atalanta, and then again when he had seen her playing the fine lady in Scherer's drawing-room, he had been puzzled to know what to make of her. The instinctive urge of his being towards her beauty, though veiled by his revolt against her whole personality, had never been quenched; and now, for the first time, in this particular hour, his fanatical mind was able to grasp the reason for her beauty: only now, when he saw this body, constrained on board to a quietude he had little appreciation of, bestirring itself in movements fraught with meaning and purpose, did he realize the aim towards which it had been moulded. And, as the realization burst upon him, his instincts and thoughts, his theories and the imperious call of his manhood, surged over her lithe, bronzed limbs in an irresistible flood.

He swam out to sea, almost unaware of what he was doing, defying the surges, ever farther from the shore, as if enticing her to follow. Clemens, his young arms tired by his exertions, could swim no farther. He called to her to stop; but the lady he had been squiring through the watery element, gave the boy the go-by, and followed the man whose rhythmic progress allured her. Those left behind on the shore were anxious, but their cries of warning merely served to stimulate the rivalry and ambition of the two water sprites. Eduard's uneasiness was of a double kind; how he reproached himself at this moment for not having spent more of his life at the seaside! He strained his eyes to the utmost, shading them with his left hand, filled with mortification and a growing jealousy, vainly endeavouring to calculate the distance between the two heads that bobbed in and out of the water. Scherer was engaged on similar calculations.

Neither could see how Kyril, suddenly disappearing when Diana was no more than a couple of strokes away, swam beneath her, his eyes open in the water; how his strong arm clasped her body as she floated inert on the surface, how he rose and drew her tightly towards him in a mighty embrace, and continued swimming with his legs alone. His teeth flashed, the pressure of his arm became more intimate, his eyes glowed ardently, his hand sought and held her left breast, and Diana, after her first cry of alarm, abandoned herself to the sea and to the man, her curls tossed by the wind and sprayed by the waves. Motionless, she waited for him to release her from his bold embrace. Then he turned his face shoreward, relaxed his hold, and the two, side by side, swam slowly and silently towards land.

CHAPTER THREE

The sea pulsed darkly around the rocks, but the starry sky looked down upon the smothered roar with a sweet, dreamlike serenity, as if it would banish such wildness so long as night was queen, and until, day returning with its ardent advances, the combat of light and waters would be resumed.

In this mood Diana reacted to the sounds and the shimmering loveliness of the evening.

On the lowest of the terraces, open to the sky, high above the rocks, Olivia and her guests sat after dinner, listening to Scherer as he played. The grand piano had been brought out—the men lugging it there themselves, following a sudden inspiration—and, as the strains of Beethoven's last sonatas rose towards the dome above, accompanied by the ceaseless roar of the tide below, its melodies captured and re-echoed from cliff to cliff, while the stars scintillated overhead, there arose out of the turmoil of sound visions of primitive man's original defiance of the gods, the theft of fire from heaven, the overthrow of the Son of Chronos—and the hearers silently surrendered to the passionate impressions the music aroused. Scherer's characteristic reserve was forgotten, his formal dinner suit was swallowed up in the shadows of the night; he had become a magician clad in the black raiment of his office, sitting in front of a black sonorous dragon whose giant sides seemed open to the sea as the creature, wounded and near its end, groaned and sent its savage shrieks to the encounter with the elements, its white teeth gleaming through the darkness and gnashing furiously at the hands that tortured. For an hour Scherer shook off all his reserves. No longer restrained by the artificial lighting and the cramped conventionality of a drawing-room, he gave free rein to hands and arms as his fingers grappled with the keys, and as the minutes passed his thoughts wandered farther and farther away from the music he was discoursing. Mechanically, by force of habit, he played the vast phrases of the composer, his heart beating high, his dispassionate lips slightly apart as if to allow the warm night air to pass freely within. Faces drifted by, faces of women reclining, as he had seen Olivia that morning on the shore, and yet not in her likeness.... He bungled a passage in the left hand, and, thrusting both the faces and the benumbed apathy of his feelings behind him, he concentrated all his faculties on the music, rousing himself to the final onslaught on the dragon before him.

As if each were on an island apart, separated by waters which the eye and the ear could no longer span, the friends sat on the semicircular terrace and were lost to each other's view in the darkness. Wilhelm's thoughts wandered from the young girl in whose company he had spent most of these two days, to the image of a certain Duchessa d'Aosta whom he had met in one of the big hotels at Rome and who seemed to him to personify worldly brilliance, in spite of the fact that her hair was grey and that her daughter, a young girl still, was at her side. Maria reminded him of this girl.... Kyril, while the presto and the subsequent maestoso were being played, had seen himself addressing a huge crowd from a roof on which he stood, and then being escorted into the private rooms of the tsar on the shoulders of his brethren, and with his own hands stripping the royal purple and the crown from the monarch; the crowd suddenly disappeared, and now he saw a naked woman standing before a curtain, proud, silent, like Diana in limb, but with long hair like that of a Frenchwoman he had known, whose tresses he had loved to shake loose on the pillow every night. At the outset, Eduard found his mind straying through the halls of his ancestral home, impelled thither by the syncopated measure of the first phrases; he carried a three-branched candlestick in hand, as if he were looking for his relatives, but he was unsuccessful in his search; then, when the adagio with its slow, twofold beat began, he found himself in a garden where he had never been before, Diana in her short summer frock walking by his side, her eyes on the distant prospect, lightly touching the waving grasses with the tips of the fingers of her left hand; and he meditated upon the recent cruise, and upon the unending kisses and dreamlike nights he had in fancy spent with her in her cabin and on deck; and he asked himself how it had all originated, and marvelled that it should find a solution in melodious melancholy.

The men did not try to catch a glimpse of the two women, whose chairs were separated by the whole width of the terrace. Olivia's white neck in its setting of black velvet gleamed softly in the darkness, as her ample form lay draped in the plentiful folds of her gown. She lolled back in the capacious chair, her arms hanging limply, her long silver chain rippling down over her bosom, like two sister streams meandering in listless curves, from the fountainhead beneath the golden chignon at the nape of Olivia's neck, downward, until they were lost in the lap of love. With eyes closed, she felt the trickle of the metal over her milky skin, and she hardly knew whether the sensation was caused by the links in the chain or by the vigorous touch of a man—some man unknown.

Diana had stepped up to the railing that she might escape from the shadow the huge walls of the castle threw across the terrace, and that, by putting a wider space between herself and her human companions, she might be nearer the stars. A slender figure in her white silk dress, she stood gazing at the tranquil sky, away from the turbulent sea; and, thus silhouetted against the night, she might well have been likened to the sweep of a bow drawn across the strings of a violin. Yet her fingers and her countenance, hidden from all men's sight, were as stormily agitated as was her heart. The pale frock she wore, one for which Eduard had a special fondness, had been selected by her in defiance of her own mood. Do what she might to efface the remembrance of that mighty embrace, she still felt the great hand of the Russian peasants' son clasping her left breast. She had been seized upon, but not subdued: this was the thought that gyrated in her head since that noontide swim, and which, for the first time since she had known him, made her feel she must concede him at least a particle of supremacy; since she acknowledged to herself that she had offered but little resistance, nay even that she would have been prepared to tolerate whatever he had demanded of her.

Was it in this very sea? And was that why she could no longer venture to contemplate the inrolling surges? Was it the sea, that solitary refuge of the restless ones, which had grappled with her? Had the sea yet other sons who might cross her path, might dive beneath her, and clasp her? She furiously thrust aside the thought of any more intimate relationship with a man who was so alien to her whole nature, towards whom by words and looks she had displayed a challenging hostility she had not felt towards any other man this many a year. So passionately cold was her mood, so greatly was her inner harmony disturbed, that when the tender melody of the slow movement was wafted towards her and threatened to melt her, she rebelled, and sought to arm herself in hardness. Urgently, she gazed up at the stars; in vain! It seemed to her that tonight she did not belong to their community any more, so dumb did they remain to her need.

Then the world of sounds rose on the airy rhythm of a scherzo, breaking the spell that held her; and all at once the vital fires were rekindled within her, they flamed and flickered and ducked and danced, gripping and nipping the stagnant blood; her fingers loosened their hold upon the railing, she stepped away from the breastwork, her eyes regained their serenity, and, as at this moment the tenuous film of clouds parted, revealing the trusty guardians of Diana's skies, she felt they were sending her a message of friendly greeting: for now she found in the firmament that for which she had been seeking, and the breath came easily from her lungs; she smiled, the horror that had flooded her was ebbing with the tide below, and she forgot, in the joy of release, that as with the tide, such an ebb could not be lasting.

Scherer rose after playing the final chords of a short presto, and this was the signal for them all to rise as if they wished to release themselves from the embrace that had held them. Diana, now, was the lightest-hearted of the party; and she, who usually was the last to arouse herself from the spell of music, tonight took the initiative in breaking the silence.

"You have conjured away the last clouds with your playing, and the protective deities are once more to be seen, while Saturn himself shines above your head. It was not until the scherzo, that part where longing broke through the theme, that the gods vouchsafed to show themselves, for longing is alien to their nature, and only the sea must for ever will and desire."

She did not glance aside as she spoke, but kept her eyes on the man she was thanking, and it was not until she had actually uttered the words that she realized to whom they had really been addressed. Olivia alone of the company had remained seated and motionless; now her tragic alto, reached them from afar:

"Why should the gods be antagonistic to human yearning, Diana? Their very existence depends on it!"

"No, no, Olivia," protested Diana, coming nearer to the group of men. "We only invented such an idea. They can have nothing to do with such things."

"She is right," said Scherer stepping up to the countess. "Beethoven seems for ever to be in combat with the powers above; either he threatens them, or else he laments."

"And that is why he is the most genuine of suffering mankind," came in Kyril's deep voice from the breastwork.

"Suffering?" Diana sought in vain to quell the pride her tone masked. "Present day," she added coldly.

"We hope that the men of tomorrow will not need him any more," said the Russian.

"Ah, whither are Mozart's blue shades vanished? For a moment in the scherzo he seemed near...." began Diana softly.

"Mozart? Fulfilment, happiness," broke in Scherer's voice. "You can't play that sort of thing in the neighbourhood of the sea."

"Such are for proud natures alone," murmured Diana. "The others need desires and lamentation—otherwise they freeze!"

"I don't care for Mozart," said Olivia rising. "He's too frivolous, too candid, too nimble for me. It invariably makes me think of a ballet—and that is detestable!"

"Not always," said Eduard, who had silently rejoined Kyril, and now addressed himself mainly to the Russian. "Your imperial ballet, for instance, is the best thing your country has to offer—in addition to furs and Catherine and Dostoeffsky."

"You desecrate a great name, Your Highness," answered the Russian.

"Do you indeed set so much store on the empress? Well, she certainly was a fine figure of a ruler," mocked the prince.

"At least she was better than many a tsar and many a German emperor!"

"Everything for the people!" said Eduard gravely. "And if blood should drip from her alcove, what concern is that of history?"

"Everything through the people," corrected the Russian. "That is the future!"

"You demand too much. If Satan had saddled me with the rank of first-born, I should merely have been able to ask myself: 'How would it be if you made this attempt?' I really could not do more."

"A good start," said Kyril, looking keenly at the prince. "But nothing more. Anyway it is too late for such attempts!"

"We've just been hearing music, and here you are already talking business," complained Wilhelm who had been standing silently beside the two men.

"Good for Wilhelm," cried Diana laughing. "And here champagne has been handed round, and you two have been holding your glasses these many minutes without realizing what they contained, so absorbed were you in your democratic antitheses!" She emptied her glass at one draught and held it out to be refilled, her pulses quickening under the stimulus. Eduard went up to her, saying:

"On the contrary! I've been enjoying the bouquet beforehand, and, while talking, have taken in the brand. Riddle: to distinguish Clicquot from Mumm without tasting. Solution: subtle difference in the aroma and in the tempo of the effervescence."

"The tempo of the effervescence," cried Diana. "I like that!"

"Labour lost," thought Kyril, turning away.

"I have one wish at the moment," continued Diana. "May I say what it is?"

"To dance?" It was Scherer who spoke.

"To dance!"

"I'll fetch my lute," said Wilhelm, relieved at the turn matters were taking, as he ran to fetch the instrument.

Olivia smiled. She suddenly felt older, felt as if Diana were her daughter. "Such a rapid change of mood," she thought. "Even at eighteen I could not have reacted thus speedily.—Or, could I, after all?"

Piano and chairs were pushed back against the walls to make room for the dance; Wilhelm had taken a seat on the steps leading into the room, legs crossed as was his custom. The ribbons he was so proud of floated from the scroll of the lute as gracefully and lightly as the waltz he now began to play. While he played, he sang, as the fancy took him, sometimes in German, at others in Italian, or merely "la la la," tapping the time softly with his toe, as if to provide a bass. Scherer invited Olivia to dance; but she would not let herself be persuaded. The prince, too, she refused.

"And what about you, Doctor?" asked Eduard as he passed by the Russian.

"I don't dance," answered Kyril.

Eduard was pleased. He fancied himself as a dancer. Nevertheless, groping in his mind for every kind of possibility which could bind this man to Diana or separate him from her, the prince asked further:

"Too frivolous an undertaking for the millennium you hope to start?"

"No one has taught me, Your Highness."

The words came sullenly, and Eduard became aware that for the first time the revolutionist was showing his teeth to the prince—that though Kyril professed to regard hereditary rulers with contempt and mockery, his essential feeling towards them was one of hatred.

Diana danced with Eduard. After a very few steps she recognized in the prince the accomplished dancer, and he the same in her. Then as if by prearrangement, he passed her to Scherer. The latter, too, danced well, though with overmuch care and precision, and it seemed to Diana that, just as in ordinary life he was exaggeratedly reserved, so in the dance he was too aloof, holding his partner so far from him that the rhythm and equilibrium of their movements were disturbed.

She hardly paused as she changed partners again, merely swallowing a glass of champagne in passing from Scherer's arm to the prince's. And when Wilhelm made as if to pause in his playing, she imperiously commanded him not to stop.

The sedate round with Scherer, the wine, and, in especial Eduard's perfect leading, which was elastic and yet sure, all contributed to make Diana feel lighter than ever, and it was as one in a dream that she passed from the vestibule of society into the temple. She gave herself up wholly to the dance, and he, who at long last held her in his arms, did so with her free consent. For Kyril, the pair of them were simultaneously contemptible and attractive. Set as he was on influencing the prince, he was loath to see the adventuress (who had made so poor a use of her great gifts) in such intimate communion with Eduard; and he was equally perturbed to see the prince, with the sanction of the hypocritical canons of upper-class morality, clasping Diana in his arms openly before all the world. Wrath kindled within him, as it always did when he was confronted with the buoyant gaiety of cultured people, and their reciprocal ease of manner; and soon this couple, dancing so light-heartedly upon the terrace of an ancient castle, clad in the conventional black of the male and the fashionable white of the female, gracefully swaying beneath the starry skies, useless and frivolous, appeared to him the epitomized symbol of the world that must be destroyed, the emblem of the ghosts of yester-year, the enemy.

Scherer, familiar with the turns of fortune in political life, wondered as he watched this young woman of many loves, whether some day his turn might not come. Olivia smiled to herself and held aloof; she could not throw off the feeling that here disporting itself before her was carefree youth, to whose kingdom she had ceased to belong; and yet she was all the more resolved to take limitless revenge before it was too late. Her eyes sought out the Russian, drew his gaze away from the dancing pair towards herself. Kyril came over to where she sat, and stood behind her, pressing close to her chair.

Eduard and Diana danced. Her knees, her breast, touched him as she swayed; she felt his arm lightly about her this night, as that morning the peasant's had rudely seized her.

"Onward, ever onward," whispered Eduard as they reached the outermost part of the terrace where the others could not overhear him. Even now he refrained from addressing her directly.

"Ever onward," repeated she a little louder, a smile on her lips.

"And one evening they danced together on the terrace of a Dalmatian castle," said Eduard, as his breath softly caressed her shoulder.

"Under the constellation of the Scales," added Diana.

They continued to dance in silence. Eduard slackened his pace so that two bars were played to one set of steps. He called to her under his breath:

"Diana!"

A look of supplication in his eyes: a longing that she should at last address him by name: she hesitated a moment, then whispered:

"Eduard!"

Hardly had the word escaped her lips than she whirled him off at double speed, fitting one whole set of steps into every half bar of the waltz. She wanted to make him breathless, and succeeded in maddening herself the more; she loved him twice as much, because he did not lose his head or his step.

"Diana! Are you listening?"

"I am listening."

"Are you mine?"

"I don't know."

"Will you become mine?"

"I am that already."

"Tell me, whom do you love?"

"Dame Liberty!"

"She's a woman."

"That am I too."

"Do you love the Russian?"

"I hate him."

"He loves you."

As he spoke, a lute-string broke as if plucked by an unknown power, shadows flitted through the open door, Wilhelm sprang up, Scherer strode up to where the lad stood, Olivia in his wake; Kyril remained where he was; the pair of dancers paused, hand in hand, awaiting the pleasure of the lute-player. Then Olivia turned to look at them, they separated, Scherer advanced, an envelope in his hand. Both the prince and Diana snuffed misfortune in the air; both sensed it would strike at them.

"A wire for you, Prince," said Olivia.

To Eduard it seemed as if the woman in black, standing thus by the white-clad woman, were the harbinger of death. Slowly he asked:

"Who is it knows that I am here?"

He stepped into the room, held the paper under the light, and read—it was a message from his cousin in Venice:

"Court chamberlain wires me, not knowing where you are. Terrible accident. Heinrich and Stefan in motor smash yesterday. Stefan dead. Heinrich seriously injured recovery problematical. Old prince crushed by blow, keeping his bed. Your instant return requested. Much grieved having to send such evil tidings...."

The paper slipped from Eduard's fingers. His first thought was for his father. "Will he live through this catastrophe?" Next his mind turned to Heinrich: "Recovery problematical." His anxiety was not so much centred upon this almost unknown brother as upon himself. If Heinrich did not pull through, his own life's course would be completely altered, his freedom would vanish, he would have to wear the crown, everything would be finished so far as he was concerned.

Diana instinctively felt the doom that was hanging over him, and as he came to the threshold of the door, having picked up the paper and thrust it into his pocket, she thought she divined everything: His father is dead! That would be the most terrible news.

"You are—you have..." began Scherer, coming towards him.

"An accident. My brothers, in a motor smash, one killed outright, the other in a bad way. I must leave for home immediately."

One thought sped round the group: He will become the reigning prince. To Scherer the thought brought satisfaction; Olivia felt cynical about it; to Wilhelm it seemed fraught with poesy. Diana and Kyril were deeply moved, both felt perplexed. Eduard sensed what they were thinking, but all he said was:

"Does the steamer call here tomorrow, Countess?"

"The Trieste boat? Not till Friday."

"Three days. Too long to wait!"

Scherer went into the drawing-room, called the servant, and said curtly:

"Send some one down to the 'Excelsior.' She's still under steam. They're to make her ready for an immediate start. We can weigh anchor in an hour."

"Oh but, can I really...? What about the others? ... Thank you, my dear Scherer!"

The party broke up without more ado.

"And I shan't be able to say good-bye to Clemens after all," said Wilhelm.

"Stay with us, then," urged Olivia.

"May I really stay?"

"We'll be simply delighted to have you."

Kyril bowed stiffly as he bade the countess farewell. They seemed to have been betrayed by fate.

Eduard sought out Diana with his eyes. She drew near the group round the doorway as he passed through it. Silently she followed his gaze as he looked downward towards the harbour where the vessel lay.

CHAPTER FOUR

Soon after midnight the yacht got under way, and, while the prince went astern, hardly conscious whither he was going, Scherer retired to the captain's cabin to look over the ship's papers. But his thoughts wandered. He was wondering whether, in the eventuality of Prince Eduard assuming the crown, the young sovereign would still seek his counsel. Again in imagination the financier saw himself and the prince in the early days of their acquaintance, pacing to and fro in the library, talking of all and sundry, from Rousseau to Emerson, and from Marx to Plato. Again he saw the dignified modesty of the young fellow's inquiring eyes, and marvelled at the contrast between this intimate of his and the man the world spoke of as the "tall cynical prince"; and Scherer was pleased at the thought that these talks, which were, rather, monologues delivered by a middle-aged and experienced warrior to his junior, might serve, in the end, to guide a reigning monarch into the paths of democracy.

Born in the ranks of the middle class and resolved never to accept a title which would raise him out of the commonalty, Scherer, jealous of his independence, shunned a life in the arena of practical politics, feeling that his mission was, rather, to spread his philanthropical ideas by personal influence. For he had learned from the experiences of business life, as he had from reading historical memoirs, how decisive was the value of such influence; he knew how the whole trend of some political issue might depend on a chance meeting, a chance conversation; and he smiled when he remembered that even in his own newspapers such developments were ascribed to parliamentary pressure or to the "spirit of the time." For an hour, now, he had been weighing the possibility that his ideas might find in this modern-minded prince an instrument for their realization; he had, as it were, a vision of an initial experiment on German soil.... The only thing he did not feel certain about was whether he had done wisely to allow his love of music to induce him to bring the prince and the Russian together that evening in March when they had made up a quartette party; he wondered how far Kyril had been able to influence the prince; he himself, as a man of bourgeois birth, must necessarily be in conflict with a man of the Russian's views; yet Kyril and the prince had had long talks together since they had joined the yacht....

Kyril did not care to take his customary place at the stern this evening; he no longer felt fascinated by the wake the ship left behind in the water; another than he, one who tonight had to hold the balance between past and future, had a better right to such contemplation.

The Russian sat huddled upon a coil of rope in the bows looking out towards the path the vessel would be taking. He gazed into the future, while he mused: "Will this man, too, play the traitor to himself as they all do when they mount the throne? I can see him as he sits over there lost in reverie. What's he thinking about? Probably he's merely worrying as to whether there should be six black horses or eight! Ah, je m'en fiche! ... Or, can I still do something with him? Everything for the people! Yes, he spoke quite seriously; that would be one step gained at least. If only I could keep an eye on him, if only I could have a finger in that pie.... I'd have to get the comrades to understand—white-livered curs!—just what such 'compromises' signify.... A tree grows up from a tiny seed, and should even an insignificant little country be impregnated with our ideas; ... but at first its people would want their prince at the head of things. He's no worse a man than any of us, and, reflected in the mirror of the centuries... What harm can there be in making a German essay before starting on the great Russian work?..."

He pondered the thought deeply; he kept his mind pure of personal ambition, of will to personal power; under the lash of his fanatical and passionate meditations he even kept his jealousy and the call of his blood to heel. It was foreign to this Russian's nature to see himself clearly, as he really was; to distinguish will-to-power from an unselfish desire to improve the lot of the people, as the woodman distinguishes green from green in the forest. He did not consciously wish to approve in himself, and to range in the complicated calculus of motives, impulses which would in the end be made the foundation of bargains; to give free rein to the urges of his strangely mingled nature, under the plea that thereby he was promoting the cause of freedom. And yet, when his instincts called, he was prone to sacrifice his mission, since he was not really inclined, in his inner-most heart, for self-immolation. At the ecstatic hour of martyrdom, he would be a fanatic willing to put his head in the noose; but it would never occur to this peasant's son that, for the sake of his mission, he ought to forgo everyday joys, the delights of youth, the embraces of a woman he desired. Thus in these nocturnal musings he revolved unceasingly in an abstract orbit, ignoring his own secret motive—which was, to remain in close contact with the prince and the woman whose careers would (he foresaw) be intertwined.

Eduard sat at the other end of the yacht, alone, as if he were no longer one of the company. After a while, Scherer made up his mind to go to bed without disturbing his guest by wishing him good-night. He urged the Russian to follow suit.

"Do you mean to finish the cruise according to plan?" asked Kyril.

"No, I don't expect to do much more than go to Venice. We had thought to stay aboard another week, but everything is changed now."

"Hm. Yes, of course. Does the prince treasure his liberty?"

"Aye—and his father," answered Scherer evasively. "The old man suffers from heart trouble, and will hardly I fear recover from the shock."

"Then it would be the prince's turn?"

"He hopes his father will recover."

"Wily old fox," thought Kyril. "These German bourgeois are past masters in the art of evasion!"

"Are you staying up any longer? I'm tired."

"So am I. You played opus in awfully well," continued Kyril as they descended the companion. "The presto, perhaps, needs just a drop of machine oil...."

"At last," sighed Eduard who had longed for complete solitude, so that his harassed nerves might find relief in movement, though it were no more than pacing up and down the deck. Yet he could not venture on such a walk so long as the others were about, lest they should enter into conversation. Moreover, his ambition spurred him to seek the bows, a place he grudged the Russian this night; an irresistible impulse drove him to cut lose from the stern, which promoted thoughts of past happenings made vivid and actual by the lurid news from his home. Arrived at the bows, he stood watching the nose of the yacht cutting its way through the waters, and the sight gave him a sense of pleasure. He, such a combination of bitter-sweet irony, had always been loath to delve into the future; but tonight when care and movement seemed simultaneously forced on him, something drew him to the bows.... Was it already an actuality? Could not Heinrich...?

A light footfall caught his ear. Diana, having discarded her gay white frock, had changed into a dark one. She had waited until she heard the two men retire to their cabins. She felt that Eduard, with whom she had exchanged no word on the drive down to the harbour, would be needing her. As Scherer and Kyril passed her cabin, she opened the door, little caring what the former, and still less what the latter, might think of her action. Experienced in all the ruses of love, supple of body as an artist or an apache, she now took this unconventional step quite frankly, accosting the two men as they approached, asking innocently: "Is the prince still on deck?"

"Yes, I fancy he is."

"Then I'll go up and have a talk with him. Good-night!"

As Diana drew near, the prince seized her hand with unwonted vivacity.

"Stay with me!" His appeal was spoken softly but vehemently. "Won't you stay?" The question was pregnant with anxiety.

"Of course I will," she exclaimed cheerfully, giving him renewed confidence, so that his tone was more courageous as he asked: "Here, on deck, till morning?"

"Till morning."

"And then, afterwards too?"

"Afterwards too." She smiled evasively.

There was an abrupt change in his manner. He turned round, and leaned his back against the rail.

"Tomorrow I shall be at home."

"Why do you speak so coldly?"

"I shall refuse the succession."

"What do you mean?"

"Immediately on arriving, tomorrow, I shall hand my refusal in to the ministry, so that in the case of Heinrich's—or in the case of my father's—death, there shall be no discussion...."

She was silent for a while. Then she asked, as if she honestly wished for information:

"Who will come to the throne in that case?"

"A cousin of a collateral line. Sturdy young fellow, cut out for the job, as fat Frederick William used to say of his second son. Besides, it's high time two such tiny countries should be united under one ruler. It will work out cheaper, simplify the administration.... It's long been the wish of the dynasty...."

"A collateral line! But what will your people have to say to that?"

He moved restlessly to the bows again.

"Our people? Of course they want to keep their independence. There's been a press campaign going on these three years, theoretical discussions, possible dying out of the line.... Princedom! Palace! Royal theatre! State carriages! Christenings! It's all so old-fashioned, so ridiculous! I'll withdraw...."

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Prince Eduard!"

He stopped in his pacing. Never had he heard her speak so coldly. Did her words not sound almost like a command? There she sat before him in her deck chair, her legs crossed, her arms spread wide on either side of her along the cordage. Her eyes were fixed on his, cold and steady. Nose and chin cocked in the air, clear-cut against the dark sky; lips compressed; she seemed petrified all of a sudden, so motionless did she sit; her locks the only live thing about her, as the wind of the ship's going tossed her curls.

"There sounds the voice of conscience," thought the prince ruefully. What he said was: "My most gracious lady is pleased to speak most ungraciously."

She got up and went close to him, so close that her light skirt blew against his knees as it had when they had danced together. But how changed was she from those few hours ago when the air had been laden with music and longing, and she had looked kindly upon his wooing. Now she was steel, hard and keen and menacing, as she said with even greater intensity than before, though she never raised her voice: "For you cannot give up your country."

"Oh, what does the country matter!"

"Not just for the country's sake."

"For whose then?"

"Fate...."

"A motor car?"

"Death!"

"Well? and..."

"One does not flinch in face of death."

"I've never been frightened of him."

"You fear life: that is easier. I have always lived with death, and therefore I am mistress of my own life."

They had remained facing one another in the bows of the ship. Her demeanour was so full of implications, her speech so metallic, that he was conscience-stricken, and seemed to hear what from the first had been his own inner voice speaking through her mouth. He seized her by the shoulder.

"What do you want, Diana?"

"Your promise that you will not send in your refusal."

"Perhaps Heinrich will recover...."

"Oh, that you should hang so weighty a thing on the possibility of a 'perhaps'! Promise, tonight, here, beneath the constellation of the Scales...."

Eduard relaxed his hold on her shoulders. His lips twitched. Then he said:

"Very well, then. But only in exchange for a reciprocal promise."

"A promise from me? Oh, but I am no more than an intercessor—I might as well be a priest!"

"No. It is to you alone that I will promise, and only then if you will give me..."

"No, no!"

"Please, Diana! You must! You must now!"

He folded her in his arms. All at once her mind was in a whirl; she felt weak, and tried to get herself in hand; she laid her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him, whispering:

"I love you; you shall have everything I have to give. Do you hear, Eduard? Everything!"

"I want more than everything, Diana."

She pulled herself free. So it was this that had made him hesitate, this that had become clear to her one morning in the monastery gardens—and it was this that she must guard, the one thing she must not part with for any consideration.

"You would deprive me of my freedom...."

He bowed his head in silence. She quitted his side, walked away to the extremity of the bows, came back again, slowly, heavily. As she reached him, he pressed her gently down into the deck chair, and, himself leaning against the rail, he said: "Diana!"

"Eduard...."

"Will you hear what I have to say?"

"Speak...."

"Last night, here, on the 'Excelsior,' I drafted a letter which was ultimately intended for our little ministry at home. Herein I explained that I renounced all my claims to the crown and succession if death should unexpectedly take either of my brothers before an heir was born. My reason: I wished to wed a lady of birth and standing, though not one of royal blood. I was merely awaiting your promise before posting the letter. Tonight, however, the issue has taken a threatening turn: tomorrow, I may become heir to the throne. If you want me to give you the pledge you have asked for, my condition is that you enter into a morganatic union with me. No religious ceremony. Only a civil marriage. Now the choice lies with you."

He had, at the last, spoken quite dispassionately, with an almost froward emphasis, for he wished to conceal his inner agitation behind the mask of his habitual irony. But she took no notice of his decoy.

"You shall have everything," she responded gravely, "but I must keep my liberty."

He paced the deck in uncontrollable agitation. Then he came again to where she sat, and said jerkily:

"So you imagine that I am going to tolerate that Diana de Wassilko shall become the mistress of a petty prince!"

She got to her feet, and, raising her eyebrows, said: "It pleases Your Highness to revert to the language of courts."

"That's where you would have me be, Mademoiselle."

"But I could not follow you there."

"That's why I shall have to leave Berlin in order to follow you whither your caprice may take you!"

"I shall be alone if I so desire."

"And I shall be awaiting you in your room when you return at night."

"At night you will be the slave of your writing-table or of your reception rooms."

"Diana!" His voice betrayed how forlorn he felt.

"Well?"

"I beg of you..."

"What do you wish me to do?"

He pressed her back in her chair, threw himself at her feet, clasping her and unclasping her, as he whispered:

"I love you. I have always been alone. I don't want to hesitate for ever; you might go away. And yet, if I remain free, you must remain free too, at my side; the ring means nothing, and I don't wish to bind you. But if... Over there is a tiny country which I may be called upon to rule. The humanly possible thing to do (a thing which no prince has ever succeeded in doing, and one which my father scarcely tried to do) would be to make some kind of humanly decent existence possible for two hundred thousand persons—but I could not do it single-handed. You once said that fate was like the owner of a slowly gyrating merry-go-round, bidding us make our choice of the many horses she offered, but that it was up to us to make our choice wisely and know without a doubt which one we would bestride. Do you remember? You said that yourself. Well, the time has come for us to make our choice. With all your wisdom, your knowledge, with so much tact, so much devotion to the work-in-hand (such as I have never seen in any minister of State), with your heart against my heart, your hand, so cool and strong, in mine—ah, thus I could venture the undertaking—if indeed it has to be!"

He bowed his head in her lap: all at once it was as if she were his mother rather than his beloved. Her hand stroked his fair, smooth hair; her eyes gazed over the sea....

Eight bells were sounded. He sprang to his feet, smiling, dodging behind her as she rose in order to walk on her right side as they strolled down the deck. They halted at the chart-room which was empty. Something gleamed from the interior. They entered.

"Hovering in a metal ring," said Diana as she leaned forward to study the compass. "To know one direction, unerringly, magnetically attracted, never to be able to deviate: only thus can one lead oneself and the others on a life's journey. Shall I abruptly steer my course north-eastward?"

She turned to him, laying her hand upon his shoulder. He clasped her to him in a passionate, unending kiss.

CHAPTER FIVE

On their arrival at Trieste the expected dispatch was brought aboard. It had been entrusted to the Austrian authorities, in the hope of insuring speedier delivery. Thus the port officials were already acquainted with its tenor. The crown prince was dead. Eduard was heir apparent.

The party on the "Excelsior" had lunched late. Calmly awaiting the end of the cruise, they had made the most of one another's company during the hours that were left to them. Eduard (as if seeking for a sedative) had reached for the chess-board and he and Kyril had played while Diana and Scherer looked on. Kyril had won. The next game likewise fell to the Russian. Soon after two, when the town was already in sight, a third game was started. Still Kyril won.

"You'll have to give me my revenge," cried Eduard, with unusual excitement.

"We'll play all the way to Vienna if you like!"

"You are taking the same train? Enchanté. Then we'll carry on the fight, and in the end—by the time we reach St. Pölten I'm sure—I shall have defeated you."

He bundled the chessmen away, and seized a telescope.

The tidings, expected as they were, left him cold. He begged them not to visit the Trieste churches on his account, nor to dine in a hotel, for his train was not timed to leave before ten. All four felt that it would be better not to prolong this painful leave-taking, so they bade farewell, the one hearty note being the cordial thanks to Scherer for his genial hospitality. In a few days they would probably meet again in Berlin, whither Scherer, Diana, and Kyril would be going, to take up their work once more; and where Eduard was likewise determined to go in order to hand over the necessary documents of his office to the competent authority. As Eduard bent over Diana's hand to kiss it, he looked up at her beseechingly, but her eyes remained inscrutable. Then she felt Kyril's peasant hand grip hers, so vehemently that she was troubled, for she had not witnessed such a mood in him the last few days.

"And now at last the firm is all that is left," said Diana coming through the door into the dining saloon, where but two places were laid on the flower-bedecked table. "Just as two years ago on the terrace of your house! Of course the fact that we are sailing to Venice makes a slight difference, doesn't it?"

"She is careful not to refer to Athens," thought Scherer, leading her to the table.

"His gallantry has assumed a lighter tone," Diana was thinking. "Strangely enough, the companionship of young people does not make him appear old."

"Souper des adieux, Prince Eduard would say," and Diana smiled at Scherer's use of the plural, which implied a certain coquetry on his part.

"Are we then to dine with ghosts?"

"I have never eaten in your company except in the presence of ghosts!"

"Wilhelm would say: But the salad is really only a take-in! It looks as if there were mountains of it, and then it turns out to be nothing but green air."

"Will you take some celery? It's as long as papyrus."

"One could write sonnets on it," said Diana.

She laughed at Franklin's excitable ways, Scherer aped the big blond Russian; Diana, herself, was not spared in their merry badinage. Then the various clerks in the office came in for their raillery, the business had its share, and finally they drank a toast to competition. It was a joyous meal after a day over which death had cast its gloom, full of reminiscence, of quips, of caricature; and when they at length rose from table they declared it would have been far better if they two alone had sailed the Mediterranean and had always drunk Marsala as they had this evening.

"I wonder where those two have got by now," said Diana in the smoking-saloon on deck.

"They've not started yet! Or did you mean how far they had got with one another?"

"How can one judge of others from a distance?" Diana crossed her legs. She held her cigarette at arm's length, and asked, a challenge in her voice: "Or, what was really in your mind? What are they thinking of us, eh?"

"That you are delightful," said he, kissing her outstretched arm. As he did so, his eyes dwelt on the firm muscles of her upper arm, which shimmered through a filmy sleeve, and he drank in the sweet aroma of her person, which was a composite of unscented soap, a thin layer of powder, the acrid smell of eau de Cologne, clean linen and a fresh, sound skin tanned by much exposure to the sun, and looking like burnished metal against the delicate texture of her gown.

Diana was aware of the sensual appeal she exercised over this man, whom she had found more chivalrous than he had ever been in the presence of his guests; now she was reminded of this anew as he slowly raised his head. She let her arm fall to her side, and lapsed into a brown study: "He's thinking that we are alone on board.... Ah, Freedom! To enjoy all the sport of love, from the man's first glance at the brooch, right to the fingers which nervously fumble with the pin; to be free to weave the web of love, or to break off when one willed, from minute to minute uncertain of what the next move will be.... To make men pliable as wax; to make them reveal themselves as they implore or threaten—so that their tongues are loosened as their limbs grow tenser, tongues that had been too proud to talk of plans, too discreet to disclose secrets.... And oneself to be consumed with desire, to arise from ever renewed embraces, from ever changing arms, a person refreshed, purified and rejuvenated, more light-hearted, more audacious, flying free above the abyss—an abyss which the unfree contemplate with alarm as a place full of tribulation and uncertainty, haunted by an unknown destiny, and to be shunned at all hazards—whereas the free, stretching their pinions wide, soar joyfully over it in magic spirals.... Freedom! Not to have to be the hammer doomed to a certain task...."

She sat very still, her gaze turned inward, lost to the passage of time. Scherer observed her in silence, thinking the while: "How turbulent she is within, how peaceful without! What must she be like when she is ardent? One should never possess women of her sort; they would then become simple, would lose their mystery, and Schopenhauer with his cynical remarks is at bottom right.... But children ... to lure children out of them ... that alone would be worth the price of solitude...."

"Is the old prince very far gone?" asked Diana, unexpectedly breaking the long silence.

"Last Christmas, when I saw him face to face, he had the bluish tint and the pinched lips of a man in the last stages of heart disease. Yesterday came the terrible shock of the accident. Prince Eduard is likely to have a field for his activities any day now."

"Activities? I think the word suits him. But do you look upon him as energetic?"

"He hides his capacity for doing great deeds in a mantle of melancholy. But his ironical faculty is an obstacle to his troubling himself to perform petty things. The puzzle to-day is, whether he looks upon the princedom as a great thing."

"Surely that is no longer the question," said Diana, rising as if to give freer rein to her thoughts. She drew her cape around her and paced the deck at Scherer's side. "He has often spoken of the unlikely eventuality of his being summoned to his present task, has he not? Don't you think that his relief at there being so little prospect of it was not wholly genuine? His repudiation of any desire to succeed to the throne may really have been the expression of the tragical conviction that, as things were, he had no reasonable prospect of ever having any serious work to do in the world." She stopped in her walk, looked at her companion, reflected for a moment, then, shaking her head, she resumed her pacing to and fro, saying: "And I can hardly believe any such thing. He is more interested in his action upon the inner life of men than in his action upon exterior things; he would be glad to know that a few thousand hearts were the happier through his work. The balance of power in Europe, courts and parliaments, alliances and intrigues, colonies and navigation, trouble him little; and were he to inherit an empire tomorrow, he would be more inclined to have a thousand peasants' cottages built than one cruiser. Don't you think I'm right? For he is good at bottom; and because he was born unfree, as Wilhelm was born free, he is condemned to make himself appear cynical."

"If only he had some really live person at his side to act as counsellor! But that old Tauernheim who has been in office these twenty years trying to introduce communal welfare work—he's nothing but a mummy."

"What do you think of Kyril Sergievitch?"

Diana was standing in the stern, where Kyril had so often sat. The sea was calm, a veil of mist lay lightly upon it, the sky was thinly overcast, the air was warm, and the wind had almost entirely dropped.

"Kyril, too, is unfree," said Scherer, looking down into the water. "He has sold his peasanthood for an idea. Only a perfectly free nature can constrain the prince to action."

And Diana thought: "True; yet he would bind this free nature of mine.... Why should one always be cabined, cribbed, and confined as soon as ever one comes in contact with one's fellows?"

"A penny for your thoughts," broke in Scherer's voice upon her meditations. His tone struck her as unusual, and she looked up at him, to find his eyes fixed upon the shoulder from which her wrap had slipped. She turned towards him, looking him full in the face, her eyes cold and aloof.

"I'm thinking that all of you build up systems, and it astonishes me to find that even you seem to consider that I should be more useful as one of the beams in an edifice than I can ever be soaring free. Am I right?"

An impulse rose within her to set his mind in a whirl, to bewilder this man whose constructive imagination was for ever making ingenious combinations, who wanted to be the architect of her life and of the lives of his friends. She would grip him in her pliant clutch and force him to face the issues which his temperamental circumspection made him prone to evade. Scherer read her hostility in her eyes as she awaited his answer; but although his pride rose against the challenge, his senses were doubly allured by the woman who for so long had puzzled and perplexed him. A hazy conviction seemed to tell him that the arrogance with which she defended her inner freedom could be overcome by no other force than the power of the conquering male. As these friends confronted one another, they rediscovered the fundamental antagonism of their two natures; impulse took the bit between its teeth, and rushed the opponents into a proximity which intellect and respect had at all times avoided. Scherer, as he stood there before her, elegant and enigmatical, was no longer Diana's friend and host from the great city; she saw in him now the eternal enemy, the man sure of himself, the burgher; at the same time the vision of last night's outburst when Eduard had wanted to deprive her of her freedom rose to her mind. What was she to do? She felt her resolution wavering. Would she for ever be able to withstand the supplication of so tender a heart as the prince's? Two forces seemed to be contending for mastery over her: her own impulse to freedom, which the future seemed to be threatening, and which, so long as it remained hers, she wished to uphold at all costs; and Scherer's impulse to order, which would attempt to make her life fruitful, nay, would construct her life for her and in spite of her, an impulse she deemed it worth while to bewilder and lead astray.

After the many thousand words these two had exchanged in the course of their collaboration, they now, in silence, became convinced that this hour was to bring a strange and abrupt turn in their relationship. Scherer realized in Diana's quick breathing, all that was implied in the challenging question she had put, and he felt that it was a case of now or never with him, as it had been in the most decisive moments of his career; such moments had been rare, it is true, but the urgency of their claim was unmistakable. Thus it was that now he risked all.

"You are right." His voice was harsh; he did not touch her. "Well? Are you willing to make a gift of this thing—of your freedom, on the last night of our voyage together—Diana?"

The boldness of the look with which he enveloped her, the unexpected pathos with which he uttered the last word, the challenge in his eyes, her own feelings of independence and of relish for the love-game, the memory of his virile gaze at her feminine charms during this evening, the disturbing consciousness of their being alone on board; the realization that his commanding tone of tonight was of a far more manly quality than had been his demeanour at Athens the previous year; the feeling that now he was the master of a graceful, white vessel, and that she was perhaps an Undine who had swung herself aboard; freedom combined with fantasy; the warm sea with its flowing heart; confused memories of scenes remote; and, again, the energy emanating from the eyes in this clear-cut head before her—all these vague sensations invaded and perturbed her as the essential male within him had foreseen. Her eyes did not repel him, as she slowly turned away, and preceded him down the companion....

"Abominably confined," said Eduard at the same hour, as he and Kyril were settling themselves into their compartment. "At this time we'd be stretching our legs on the deck of the 'Excelsior'; nothing would be rattling, everything would be working smoothly, bearing us along...."

"After a dream, reality is always noisy. Smooth sailing is pleasant; noise is instructive," said the Russian sententiously.

"Schoolroom in an express train! How do you fancy the remnant upon the 'Excelsior' is passing the evening?"

"She'll be wearing her black dress, because it is the lowest cut—and Scherer will be making advances!"

Eduard, a pang shooting through him at the words, merely asked:

"Do you really think our kindly host is in love?"

"She is beautiful. I once saw her pose as a statue at a public gathering in Berlin; she was something like the goddess Diana. Weren't you there, too?"

Eduard trembled.

"Unfortunately not," he said. "I've heard that it was most charming."

"How well he lies; with what effrontery they all lie, these princes," thought Kyril contemptuously—as though he himself invariably spoke the truth.

"A thousand men's eyes stared at her," Eduard was thinking, "a thousand thoughts crept around her and over her on that occasion.... Well, why not? How shall I know what covetous desires may flare up in the hearts of men as we pass together through the public rooms of some hotel in Palermo or Dresden or Cairo? ... Am I not taking too much upon myself? ... Shall I be able to bear it?..."

"But he's not going to have her," Kyril broke in upon Eduard's reverie, speaking like a man who is sure of possessing a particular woman when the auspicious hour strikes.

"Russian cur," thought Eduard, as he said: "The young lady appears to be incorruptible."

The sentence hovered in the air, flitted to and fro between the two men, like a breath from Diana herself, belonging first to one and then to the other, and blown backwards and forwards between them. And while Diana, afloat on the sea, in the little cabin on the white yacht, flaunting her liberty, was giving herself to a man she did not love, to a man determined to solve the riddle of her nature, two men in a compartment of a night express were dreaming of her, one imagining he would win her with his tenderness, the other wishing to master her in a mingled frenzy of hate and love.

CHAPTER SIX

Scherer had told Diana that he hoped to catch the evening train at Venice. With this end in view he had his ship's papers ready to be cleared and his trunks packed. But Diana felt that a long train journey in his company would be rather trying, so, as an excuse for avoiding it, she expressed a wish to see her father, and said she would stay a day longer before starting for Berlin. Sending her luggage to the station, she dispatched Mary with a couple of light valises to the Palazzo Tiepoletto to prepare the old man for her coming. A wish for protection, rarely felt by her, made her unwilling to put up at a hotel.

The gondolas were waiting at the foot of the gangway, and everything was ready for their leaving the yacht. Diana looked round for Scherer, wishing to say good-bye, though in forty-eight hours she would be seeing him again at the office. One of the sailors ran off at her bidding, sought the master this way and that, but could not find him. Diana concluded that he had withdrawn to his cabin, preferring to make his farewells in private. She set out, therefore, to find him. He was alone in the captain's cabin, waiting, waiting for her. She went in, a neat little figure in her travelling dress and tightly fitting hat.

"Good-bye! See you again Friday, at nine o'clock, in the office."

Her voice was as fresh as after a sea-bath. He said nothing; but his eyes beckoned her to him. She came up to where he stood. He was breathing heavily, though he tried to appear calm.

"Diana?"

"Well?"

"You are leaving me. In a very few minutes I shall be alone. Give me one more friendly word before you leave the boat."

"The 'Excelsior' has been lovely," she said softly, her voice changing its tone. "My grateful thanks for the voyage. I shall never forget it."

The simplicity of her choice of words, the artless way in which she spoke them, moved him profoundly; his hands itched to take the beloved head between them; nevertheless he refrained.

"Shall we—not continue to journey together?"

"There's no more coal! By tonight the boilers will have become quite cold."

"Diana!"

"Well?"

"Do say something else."

She hesitated a moment, then said softly:

"You have been very good."

He would have taken her in his arms, but she deftly eluded his grasp. Before he could say a word in response, he heard the gangway creaking under her light tread. "Lost," thought he, following the gondola with his eyes as it retreated. No hand was waved in farewell, and as he slowly descended the companion to go to his cabin he muttered: "I should never have accepted her gift. Then, perhaps, I might have held her.... 'You have been very good!'..."

He took up his hat and stick, glanced at himself in the mirror, and stretched himself, manlike. "And yet—it was well worth while! They all think me so ascetic—because they take their repasts daily! After last night, I could fast for five years."

When the gondola had put a certain distance between her and the yacht, Diana turned round:

"Good-bye, dear ship," she said; but no sign was vouchsafed her from the deck. "Have you been 'Excelsior' as far as I am concerned? Have you brought me those who are destined to be my friends? Two friends I have lost while I have journeyed on your pleasant deck—because I gave them too much ... yet the one I love kissed me only once...."

Her father looked up from his breakfast as she entered the room. When she beheld his venerable head once more before her, the tension of the last few days snapped, and she fell weeping at his knee. Seeing her again so soon, in a mood so chastened, alone and agitated, the old gentleman could not but imagine something terrible had happened. He tried to calm her:

"There, there, Diana my dear. I'll help you all I can. Things are never so bad as they seem at first. Get up, there's a dear child."

Did he imagine she had come to him for succour? She laughed aloud at the thought, jumped up, drew a chair to his side and sat down, and, while she smoothed her skirt and flicked the dust from it, she said cheerfully:

"It's nothing. Do forgive me. I'm so happy to be with you again. Mary is here, too. Can we stay? Just for one night! Tomorrow I must be off. Father dear, what are you having for breakfast? Is it good? You are used to something hot, aren't you? London style. Don't you feel the draught from the balcony? Oh Father, you are such a dear!" He stroked her hair gently. "No one ever does that! They always clasp, and cajole, and hurry, and rampage. I should like to be with you, quietly, saying sweet things to you."

He was surprised at this unusual flow of words, and begged her to tell him her news. So they went to the Piazzetta, into the Palazzo Ducale, where she made straight for the Tintoretto she loved, asking her father to follow, and did not stop till they came to the Ariadne.

"No, I'm not like her. Her knees are rounded and so are her breasts. But the god is a boy. Look, Father, how well he woos, how tenderly he beseeches her. He does not command! He has summoned Hymen, that the god may lay his hand in hers—and he could have coerced her had he wished! I feel sure he will stroke her hair as soon as they are alone on that beautiful sailing vessel. This is Eros—not like—not like those others.... What is Eros like, tell me, Father?"

Her voice had become exquisitely melodious as she spoke; the old man felt her to be inspired; and as she turned to him, her eyes glistening with tears, he said:

"Helena! Your mother was just like this at times, though not often...."

She slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him along through the great halls of the palace.

"Father?"

"Diana?"

"Give me your advice; help me," said she, hastily, softly, almost cheerfully, as they walked slowly up and down. Two elderly dames passed them by, noses buried in a red-bound book.

"The prince, you remember? Prince Eduard, the man who talked such nonsense about Lord Byron that day we met on San Lazzaro—well, he has suddenly become the heir to the throne. I expect you've read about it in the papers. I love him; but he is set on my becoming his wife, and I am not cut out for married life. He is tender, and wise, and good; but my freedom, as you know, is metallic, hard, and as shiny as bronze. Over there in the north is a castle, colder than this one we are in, great halls, far too stiff and formal for me, people with petty faces and disturbing hands, and the comedy of 'duties'—— Oh, how could I ever fit into all that? ..."

Her father listened tranquilly. Then he paused by one of the windows, withdrawing into its recess, leaning against the side, and gripping his ivory-handled stick in both his hands.

"You love him—and yet you will not... Do you love another as well?"

She looked her astonishment.

"No, no! Not now."

"But you fear that later..."

"I must remain free."

"Do you mean in a general way?..."

"I think I do—yes."

"It seemed to me you were rather taken with the Russian?"

"I hate him!"

"Precisely."

"You can leave him out of the picture."

"And yet, no! We'd better have him on the canvas!"

"Why?"

"Because you hate him."

"What am I to do?"

"Follow your heart."

"That holds none but Eduard's picture."

"Then, be his."

"But he wants me to marry him, wants me to share in his work, his counsels, his thoughts, as they relate to the well-being of two hundred thousand people! He'll venture it on no other condition. Do you understand?"

He was silent again, and she resumed her pacing. After a while the old gentleman seated himself in a chair near the window, lighted from the courtyard. Diana confronted him as if she were in a confessional. He spoke:

"If you refuse him, what do you propose to do next? Will things remain as they were, as you described them to me? Will you go on working in Herr Scherer's office, his confidante, his friend?"

Diana's lips trembled. Then she said, her voice having lost its melting tones and become harsh:

"No, that will all stop."

"What are you thinking of doing?"

"Oh, I'll find something."

"How will you bear separation from the prince?"

"I love him."

He gazed at her for a moment, then rose, and said quietly but resolutely:

"Conditions of any sort are of no importance. Your heart must decide."

CHAPTER SEVEN

The funeral was over, and Eduard, ensconced in a corner of the carriage, was on his way back to the castle. He took off his shako and smoothed his hair. "Well that's finished! Not so bad after all. I'd thought the whole mumbo-jumbo was going to be insufferable. It's not much worse than a military parade. A bit too much gaped at—like the emperor's birthday celebrations.... But the driving out in state was horrible.... Old Oehlke made quite a decent oration; a trifle long, but not over unctuous. Dealt a little curtly with Stefan, who was, after all, a man of feeling. I wonder what his widow's going to do? ... Didn't she really ever have a child? ... Mathilde seems put out; even her attempt to do a little public sobbing did not deceive any one. Is this all one married Heinrich for? None of the joys of love, no children, and then at forty to be the relict of a prince who never came to the throne! And they're so poor! If only I had money to spare I'd dower her for a second marriage.... Papa wishes at all costs to pull the purse-strings tight. He's right. When all's said and done, it's the people who have to pay.... No, I'll not go out of my way to influence him.... Changes are always so obvious; he'd notice at once.... Glad I got him to stay at home this appalling weather. What rain! Last time I saw him ... must have been in March ... six or seven weeks ago ... we dined in some place or other on Unter den Linden, and he had an extra dish of carrots so as to gain the time to talk me over and bring me to reason. It was touching to witness his ill-success! He is absolutely incapable of commanding those he loves. If we were as bombastic as our brethren in Berlin, we'd nickname him 'The Good'! His eyes are blue.... I always feel I am having a glimpse of heaven when I look into them...."

The prince's cortège had reached the central streets of the little capital, and every window was crowded with the faces of those eager to see the procession go by. So Eduard replaced his shako, sat up straight, put on the facial expression his people might expect from him after the funeral, bowed to right and to left, studying meanwhile the countenance of the populace—in so far as that was possible through his mask of heroic moderation which (with his characteristic irony) he commended himself for having assumed.

"Broad heads, square rather than long, stubborn as are the middle Germans by temperament, their mistrust only overcome by degrees.... And yet loyal to the core, because their dynastic instinct is so strong.... Is there no end to this stately avenue leading to the castle? Ghastly! Three months' leave every year, otherwise I resign, as William so politely informed Bismarck.... There stands the worthy Tauernheim on the steps, ready to receive me! An end to these musings! To business!"

"His Highness is expecting Your Highness in the blue study."

"Where is the doctor?"

"He's waiting in the next room."

Eduard entered the hall, and motioned the old doctor back into the chair from which he had risen. Taking a seat himself, the prince removed his shako, sighed, and selected a cigarette.

"Everything went off smoothly—even the rain!"

"I'm sorry my professional duties should have kept me away from paying His Highness the prince my last respects...."

"Don't mention it, my dear Doctor! And now—are we alone? Are the doors shut? Or only closed?" Eduard got up to try the handles. Then resuming his chair, he continued: "You are amused? But there's always some Paul or Max or other, whose tall, black figure appears from nowhere, all unexpectedly, offering sherry—like Erda in Siegfried! Well, now that the black fate has fallen on me and nothing can throw it off, I am going to ask you the question which I had hoped my two brothers would save me from having to put."

The doctor looked gravely through spectacles which in no way dimmed the shrewdness of his eyes, and said in a matter-of-fact voice:

"I am sorry to say that the prince is rapidly going down hill. I told the late prince as much last March, and urged him to make ready. Last Sunday, after the terrible catastrophe, he had another attack in the night, which was only relieved by injections of camphor and morphine. Next morning his urine was loaded with albumin, as always after excitement. His pulse intermits every sixteenth or seventeenth beat. He has lost all interest in his work. Then you must remember that he is seventy-two years of age. Your Highness must realize that every day he is spared should be regarded as an unexpected gift."

Eduard got up, threw his cigarette end into the fireplace, strode over to the window, and lost himself in meditation. "Have I not read all this before? The crown prince, in the uniform of a hussar, spurs clinking, returning from a funeral, cannot bide the time for his father's death.... God, what would I not give this man if he could save my father for another decade—nay, merely for another three years!..."

Eduard turned to the doctor:

"Many thanks. I'll go in to see him." At the door he halted, and, turning again to the doctor, inquired casually, as it were: "No excitement, I suppose?"

"I must even urge that even those who have come to pay formal visits of condolence be not admitted to audience."

Huddled together, wearing a tunic of ancient cut, the old prince, in the half light of his spacious study, was sitting in front of the writing-table at which he had done his work for the last twenty years. He was pleased with his son's appearance, the dapper uniform becoming the slender figure well; and he was the more pleased seeing that hitherto he had never been able to persuade this youngest child of his to don the military livery unless directly commanded to do so.

"He's much smarter than he'd have us believe," thought the ageing prince as Eduard bent low to kiss his father's forehead.

"A fine brow," said Eduard to himself, "so nobly arched and furrowed...."

"Well," asked his father, "did it all go off decently, and in order? How did Adalbert behave?"

Eduard gave his report.

"So, he was not the first to be at the vault," murmured the father. "It would have been a handsome thing to do. And what about Mathilde?"

"Not a tear."

"Ah! I did not force him into that marriage. Tauernheim always thought it would have a soothing effect upon... He may have been right. But I'm against these marriages of cousins.... It's better to be childless than to breed idiots.... I imagined that, should Heinrich not feel inclined ... Stefan would provide the necessary progeny. Well, all that is over and done with now.... I am glad your mother did not live to see this day! Ah, Eduard my son, I am very weary. Are you going to take my place?"

Eduard, profoundly stirred, would have stroked his father's brow; but he took the proffered chair, placing his sword between his booted legs, and saying quietly:

"I would ask Your Highness to put at least some of the work on my shoulders."

The old man looked up, he saw the fair head, with its smoothly parted hair, bowed deferentially before him, he passed his hand over his own white locks, then he said:

"My dear Eduard, let's have none of that. We must speak to one another like two human beings. This may be the last time we shall ever talk together—or almost the last! As soon as possible I intend to pass the burden on to you: the whole burden when I go to join your mother. You are rather hypermodern, you know, and Tauernheim is anxious about the future; in fact, they are all worried about my death, now they know that Prince Eduard is to be the next ruler. For my part, I am tranquil, for I know you're a good fellow. Shall I assume Polonius airs with you, and teach you how to behave? You know the ropes as well as I do. Always have the people in mind—but don't try to play the twenty-first century game, especially in this little country. Be democratic, that goes without saying; but not Karl Marx, my dear Eduard, though I know you think a lot of him. Even Herwegh would be too strong meat. We are nothing but Liliputians here. Still, I don't need to go over all these things with you, and waste precious time. You've known my mind these ten years, and have seen eye to eye with me." He paused, making himself more comfortable in his arm-chair. "One thing, however, I have to ask, my dear Eduard. You see how quickly a motor car can be hurled down a mountain side. You must hasten to provide for the succession."

Eduard had determined not to disturb the serenity of his father's mood by disclosing any of his personal plans. He said quite casually, therefore:

"Of course, Papa, I'll marry. You have Leonore in mind?"

The old man smiled, and in a flash it was borne in on Eduard that death had indeed laid a hand on his father, for the eyes that were wont to twinkle with merriment, were now apathetic.

"The question is, rather, whom have you in mind."

"Raison d'état, my dear Father. We have often spoken of this before."

"Eduard?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"What sort of a time did you have on the yacht? I got the photo you sent—was it from Messina?"

Eduard fidgeted with his sword-belt.

"The 'Excelsior'? Oh, it was quite charming, those weeks on board."

"And did you gain your end? I doubt not that it was charming—but a capricious young woman, and five men hanging around—because Scherer of course had to count as a possible rival...."

The father had hoped great things from the cruise; for from what he had learned in Berlin, he could not but believe that this clever woman would bring the prince to the point of making an offer. Now that the disaster had changed the order of succession, he was seized with dread, knowing that the fate of the little country hung in the balance. The son, guessing what was passing through his father's mind, was resolved at all costs to save the invalid from agitation, for the dying ruler was now obviously not so much concerned about a morganatic marriage as about the lack of offspring competent to succeed, this implying an eventuality the old man had been so careful to guard against—the passing of the country into the hands of the collateral line. Eduard had made up his mind not to speak plainly, and yet deference for his father's wisdom and kindliness, made him unwilling to tell a direct lie. At the same time, foreseeing the question, he had vowed not to commit himself in words to anything which he would have to forswear after his father's death. He therefore evaded the immediate issue by rejoining:

"Yes, Scherer is a man of importance, and, besides, quite disinterested. He should be invited to advise us in financial matters."

"He's trying to fob me off," thought the father, and, obsessed by the thought that tomorrow would be too late, he asked without circumlocution:

"Did Scherer, too, win the lady's regard?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Eduard?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"Are you still free?"

"What just do you mean by that?"

"No commitments?"

"None," he exclaimed, while he thought: "Unfortunately, none as yet!"

The old man breathed more freely.

"But Father, heirs are not produced by love!"

"I need not worry, then?"

"He wants me to give him my promise," thought Eduard. "And I am determined not to give him any such thing." He smiled, and said politely:

"A difficult thing to guarantee, my dearest Father. Heinrich, for instance, had none in three years...."

"He's a good diplomatist," thought the father, "and it is a pity he cannot remain in the foreign diplomatic service." He, too, smiled, as he said:

"I feel confident you will do all that in you lies so that there shall be no change here...?"

Eduard shifted his sword-point an inch or so, hesitated, and then said:

"As a man of honour I can, of course, only speak for myself; and if I am called upon I will, when the time comes, make use of every power I possess...."

"The hours speed by," thought the old man, once more filled with anxiety, "and the youngster takes refuge in rhetoric! He needs to be decoyed—or at least his affections." He studied the bowed head, and the great flat surface of the writing-table seemed to him a symbol. He pushed back his chair; he needed to win his son's confidence, and yet he hesitated. At last he made up his mind. Almost in a whisper he said:

"Eduard, my dear boy, won't you promise me...?" The young prince trembled and, against his will, the sword clattered lightly as he held it between his knees.

"What is it, Papa?"

"You will see to it that there are legitimate heirs?..." He laid his gnarled hand across the table, towards his son; there was no tremor now. But Eduard did not raise his head; his eyes were fixed on the withered hand that lay there begging for one last gift which was at the same time the first it had ever been held out to receive. He was permeated with the realization of how intensely lonely was this dying man before him, an old man who had just laid two sons in the grave; at the same time he envisaged the future, as for three days he had envisaged it, with Diana at his side.... He rose to his feet; he took the old hand in his own: he kissed it: but he spoke no word.

"I have promised nothing," said the son to himself, as the world swayed purple before his eyes.

"He loves her," thought the father. "In that case I cannot bind him."

Silently, the two men looked at one another. Each knew that he had been understood.

The silence persisted for many seconds. Then the old man rose stiffly from his chair, looked about him, searching for his papers, sat down again, invited his son to do likewise, and pressed the bell. A manservant came to the door.

"Ask His Excellency Tauernheim to come in."

Another minute passed in silence. The young man's eyes rested lovingly on the old man, and Eduard marvelled that, after so many shattering blows, the veteran could put on the harness once more. The minister entered. The old monarch spoke:

"Please take a seat, my dear Tauernheim. Henceforward we shall always be three to discuss our plans—for Prince Eduard will want to take his bearings. Here, for instance, is the project for the Neuburg highroad. How does the matter stand...?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

Diana emerged from the great red-brick building which constituted the headquarters of the newspaper. She had been back some weeks, and spent the whole forenoon working in the office as before. Now, in her simple summer frock she was walking leisurely down the drive. Other young ladies, eager to catch a bus or to rejoin a lover round the next corner, overtook her, and scurried on their way. Diana seemed to see herself again, making her entry here that first day, ignorant of all these faces, scrutinized by the huge janitor at the door, a man she was subsequently to greet with such studied dignity; and as she dwelt on that time in reminiscent mood, it occurred to her that she was older now by two whole years. Was not this very day the anniversary? She took her way along the Friedrich Strasse, musing as she went.

"Yes, it was the fourteenth of May, the same date, I remember it well, for I started work the next morning, and on the last of the month I got my two weeks' pay, a hundred and twenty marks. Am I happier now that I get ten times as much? J'aime l'argent, parce que j'aime la liberté. Are those the words of the sage of Geneva, who had them from Voltaire? Or have I read them somewhere in Voltaire's works? ... Liberté! There's a flavour of gasconade about the French word. Libertà! That rings truer. Freedom has a hollow sound. Freiheit is beautiful. And yet it is an ancient word! At one time I could rattle off the libertatem concedere, desiderio libertatis flagrare; but the most lovely of all was the libertas innata! And then eleutheria! I remember when I was seventeen I read the definition in my Greek lexicon: 'eleutheros—1) free, independent; 2) self-disciplined, candid, also inconsiderate, unceremonious.' Yes, inconsiderate.... How the young toss the word in the air and never realize its implications! One just begins to understand it by the time one is twenty-five. The day has come when I can say: Ten years ago..."

Her attention was attracted to a pair of laughing young lovers crossing the street, and then coming to a halt in front of a great plate-glass window full of goods; she saw the girl point a tiny gloved finger at a little box containing the coveted knives and forks, and press this same finger against the window.

"They all seek out some brick-built den, and then they mate, and breed, and feed, and die. I have brought too high an ideal of the perfect from a previous life, too much presumption, too keen a demand for the princely.... Even this word will have to disappear before long. As soon as one sees a thing near at hand, it becomes meaningless. How hard it is for Eduard that his excessive seriousness should always make him misconceive the present. Ten days since we bade farewell.... Why does he leave me with never a word? I know his heart is in a fever, his head is throbbing; always grubbing in the mines of the future! ... Oh these men who are for ever practising renunciation, these architects of life, these Scherers, and Eduards, and Russians.... The Russian? He at least occasionally sends all his theories to the right about, so that they retire trembling into a dark corner!"

She turned into Unter den Linden.

"The lime trees are in flower, and their sickly-sweet perfume is wafted to me. I'm always driven to seek out Germany in May. Has one ever enough of it? Libertas? With seven hours at the office? It's lost its savour ... not only because of Scherer ... and yet... It used to be so jolly in the old days when he came towards three every afternoon to discuss things with me; and the paper he held in his hand had the appearance of a battle ground. With what evident pleasure he'd let me get the better of him in one round, though in the end he was still more delighted when he pinked me! Now it is nothing but recriminations; or he will beseech, or play the meek and humble.... Meanwhile, kindliness, such as we hoped to establish in our relations, murmurs deprecatingly: 'I am kindliness: let us try to understand one another.' ... How stately and white the library looks over there. It is peaceful, because it contains all the wisdom of the world. Had I not better once more go through its portals and start learning anew? Sometimes the game seems too ridiculous for words; the feverish activity to get the latest news, merely time lost."

She stopped before a travel agency, looking at a map of the world on whose oceans tiny ships sailed. An arm suddenly stirred the curtain from within the office, a huge hand gripped one of the tiny vessels which had nearly reached the Azores, and set it down again one degree farther westward. Then, another boat, nearing Cape Town, would suffer a similar fate.

"Just like the gods. Without that sleeve and cuff, one might take it for Neptune's arm. Thus, it is only Mercury's. How small are the seas: how swiftly the little ships travel across them! The 'Excelsior' could make no more than eleven knots; without a breath of wind to help them, these have made twenty-three.... Ought one not ... I could..."

She scrutinized the map, which was becoming more and more full of life as she looked. She planned, cast away her plans, and then pursued her meditations:

"Another fortnight, and Father will be taking the train through the Simplon, to Paris and London... Macdonald once promised me he'd keep a place for me in the British Museum.... The time has come when I should make another dive, experience new freedoms and unfreedoms...."

Now a jeweller's window caught her eye. She stopped to inspect.

"How old-world those diadems appear. If they were antiques, it would not be so bad. But to think that they are still made and still find purchasers! Eduard is perhaps the only one from that world who really feels deeply.... Yes, those are huge pearls, shaped like pears, a grey chain—I should not mind having that. They come from the sea, and he whom the gods permit to find the right shell has merely to open it and there the pearl lies in all its beauty. A gift from the depths, heavy with melancholy—not like these sparkling diamonds which it has taken thousands of black hands to hew from the earth with the aid of horrible machines bringing death in their train...."

"Do you like those glittering headbands?"

She turned abruptly at the sound of the deep voice, and found Kyril beside her.

"How do you do, Mademoiselle?"

Diana gazed into the earnest blue eyes; she felt the strong hand clasping hers.

"At the moment my mind was drifting so vaguely among thoughts of diamonds and princely crowns and what not, that they would ultimately have wandered to you had you not yourself spoken before I got there!"

"Then I may as well continue on my way, for it is probably far better for us to think of each other than to talk to each other."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because our talks have never yet led to anything. Are you going through the Tiergarten?"

"I'm on my way home," said Diana moving ahead, while Kyril—by chance or through an impish spirit of contradiction—remained on her right.

"How much nicer he looks in this old-fashioned get-up," she thought, "than he did in his soft hat and elegant clothes on the yacht."

"She's dressed herself with great simplicity today," he was thinking; "she seems more serious," he added to himself, having watched her for some time from a distance before he spoke to her.

Their conversation turned to questions as to what each had been doing since they had parted, and then Kyril asked for news of the prince. They passed by Diana's door, before she answered:

"I had thought you would be able to tell me something about him—you made the journey together."

"I've only had one letter since then. And you?"

"Nothing," said Diana quietly.

"She's lying," thought Kyril.

"I wonder what Eduard wrote to Sergievitch," thought Diana. Then she said: "Did he appear to be finding things hard towards the end?"

"No, he seemed all right during the train journey. We talked politics. With a wise head to guide him, he'll do well, I fancy. He has excellent intentions."

"Undoubtedly. Admirable disposition."

Unconsciously Diana had adopted Eduard's very tone and manner as she uttered the words, and Kyril was unpleasantly impressed: "How they snap at one when they have anything to hide, people of this class," he thought. "Oh, I'll clear out!"

He stopped when they reached the corner. Diana asked tentatively:

"Perhaps we shall meet at Herr Scherer's?" But her thoughts were: "He ought to come in with me and play the 'cello the whole evening!" She did not, however, even ask him to call.

"Maybe we shall," he said frigidly.

She had fallen into a brown study, and did not hear him when he spoke, saying absent-mindedly:

"And you'll play that sonata with him—the one you played alone in the Palazzo Tiepoletto."

"And you would be criticizing the time of day.... You want nocturnes at night!"

The mocking tone of his voice brought her back to the present.

"Good-bye," she said, merely nodding her head to him, and never raising her hand in farewell.

When she got home, she found her brother waiting for her. He had come to see her once before since her return, had asked after their father, had given no news of himself, and as he left had said casually that he might be going on a journey. She was pleased, and at the same time not overjoyed to see him here today, for she had looked forward to being alone and to thrashing her own problems out with herself.

"Forgive me," he said. "Am I disturbing you? I hope my cigarette... Is it too strong? A little opium.... Shall we open the windows?"

"Why's he talking so much and so unsteadily?" The question agitated her as she took a chair beside him.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked civilly.

"I'm just off...."

"What makes you so restless?"

"Can't help it. I know I am a trifle..."

"Do you need my help?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"Of course."

Diana was pleased that he should come to her in his strait, rather than try to raise the wind among his friends. But this was the first time for two years that he had asked her for any pecuniary assistance, whence she concluded that he must be passing through a crisis.

"Only too pleased to let you have what I can...."

"Thanks. But it's rather a lot...."

"How much?"

"Four thousand."

She had completely regained her composure by now, and got up quickly to go over to the window. It was as one young man addressing another that she said:

"Absolutely necessary?"

"Urgent."

"Soon?"

"At once."

"I've only got five at the bank. You could have your four by tomorrow."

"Sunday tomorrow. Banks closed."

"By Monday, then."

"Too late."

"What on earth are we to do?"

"Borrow meanwhile."

"No!"

The word shot out so coldly that he became alarmed, for it sounded final.

"Well, for the present, a note of hand will do."

"Gladly."

She sat at her table, writing. Then she said:

"What name?"

"I'd—rather write that in myself."

Slowly she turned, and looked at him. As he stood there, so elegant and handsome and pale, she suddenly felt a loathing for him and his way of living. Yet there was also a little envy too; she envied him for being able to keep the secret of his life so completely.... Turning back to the table, she wrote, signed, and handed him the paper in an open envelope.

"I have no more. Besides, I am going to resign my post...."

He did not seem to hear. Thanking her, he took his departure. She pressed the button of the bell.

"Mary, please make me a pot of tea. No, I'd rather have some fruit."

"There's none to be had. Oranges are finished, and strawberries not yet in season."

"I saw a basket of strawberries at the florist's over the way."

"Ah, those!"

"Yes, those. Please go and fetch them."

"Silly old slow-coach," thought Diana petulantly as the old woman disappeared to do the commission. "She must come to cap my worries. The last straw! ... What a day! Cooped up in a stuffy office, business letters, trouble with the records, lunch in the office among unattractive persons, one of whom makes noises as he chews.... A note from Scherer, politely begging for a fresh statement of accounts, and remaining 'your...' Mine? ... Longing eyes cast in the direction of the library ... resistance to the lure of those diadems... A peasant, anarchist and 'cello player, who reviles me in his heart, because I annoyed him one evening in Venice when he had been playing Bach ... A servant who considers early strawberries too good for me... And yet ... hold on, Diana! Did you not see a huge hand manipulating ships upon the seas? True, the hand was only the hand of Mercury; still, it was the hand of a god... There's no way out of it... I'll have to start afresh..."

She held the little basket lovingly in both her hands, and carried it to her writing-table. Setting it down, she picked out the ripest, and nodded appreciatively as she ate. Gregor's face flashed upon her, and she remembered how they always inverted the order of the breakfast dishes.... She dug her teeth into the fruit, and sucked in her lips. Then she took another. At last squaring her elbows, she wrote:

"Two years ago, this very day, Paula Linke, in answer to an advertisement, stepped through the portals of your office. You read my reports, dear Herr Scherer; then you sent for me, and discovered Diana Wassilko.

"The fact that my eyes happened upon that advertisement, was not due to any skill on your part or on mine. Where you showed your mettle, was in being so quick to discover the merits of a stranger. I have to thank you primarily for all the experience I have gained in your service, in the matter of travel, of things, and of personalities; secondarily I owe my good fortune to a kindly fate.

"Above all what I value in you is the man, the teacher, and the friend. Don't take it amiss that I should leave you at such short notice. You will soon find a substitute. I am in urgent need of a change. The whole earth is open to me. I hope to get everything straight by June 1st, and to hand you over my final reports and accounts.

"Wherever life will take me I shall always look back with pleasure to the days I spent within the white walls of your office, shall never forget your round dining table, and the 'Excelsior.'

"DIANA."

She read the letter through, placed it in an envelope, stretched her hand out for her seal. The telephone bell rang.

"Scherer speaking. Good evening."

"I've just finished a letter to you."

"To me? That's something new! So far I've only received one card."

"Well, what's the news?"

"I've this moment had a telephone message to say that old Prince Heinrich died at four this afternoon. I thought you might be interested...."

CHAPTER NINE

Two telegrams lay on the table: one addressed to Herbert Macdonald, the superintendent of the new wing of the British Museum Reading Room; the other to Professor Dufour of the Institut Physiologique, in Geneva. In both, Diana asked whether she could be allowed to resume the work of previous years. She rang to have the two wires taken to the post. At that moment the house-bell sounded, too; there was an opening and closing of doors, the sound of voices, the rattle of a sword, and then Mary appeared, obviously a prey to inner excitement, to say that Prince Eduard wished to see her. As she announced him, Eduard himself, in his hussar's uniform, appeared on the threshold. Before coming up to where Diana stood, he glanced round, as if to assure himself that Mary had gone. He waited until the old woman had shut the door, and her footsteps had ceased to sound in the passage. By that time, he had mastered his agitation sufficiently to greet Diana with the customary clacking of the heels, and, as he bent to kiss her hand, to address her in conventional tones. She opened her eyes in astonishment at his get-up, and this gave him an excuse for lapsing into the ironical vein.

"I promised you I would come to see you once in more than Spanish grandeur! Do forgive me for this weird kind of dress."

He took off his shako.

"You ought never to dress in anything else!"

Diana was honestly surprised at his comely appearance. For a moment the thought of Klarchen and Egmont was irresistible. She stepped farther away to get a better look at him. He stood her scrutiny for a moment. Then he impulsively seized her by the hands, drew her to the sofa, fell on his knees before her, grappled her to him, felt her all over with his two hands, touched her delicately with trembling finger tips, breathing words rather than speaking them:

"... Diana... I've got you at last... Yes ... it is really you ... your very self... Forgive me... I've been... I've had... Oh these days ... the awful things ... and all the bowings and ceremonial ... no soul. It's not half as ridiculous as I had thought ... far worse ... it is ice ... it is Greenland.... Ah, let me rest, only for five seconds.... Time goes so much quicker than they tell us in the books ... two minutes, and a man is dead ... a motor flies off at a tangent at a bend in the road, a venerable head drops to one side even as the lips are still speaking.... It's all so quick, Diana ... and as one rises from the side of the deathbed, an old gentleman approaches and announces that one is a prisoner for life ... all, all, in twenty short minutes, all in the course of one fortnight, since I left the 'Excelsior' and came ... to ... this ... diadem!"

His head sank in her lap, two strangled sobs forced themselves from him in the overwhelming sense of release. She could only sit there in silence, shaken to the soul, holding the throbbing forehead between her hands.

Slowly he raised his head, took her hands in his, kissed each, one after the other, with great deliberation.

"How warm your silence is. Over there, at home, silence is so cold. The only feeling heart in the whole principality is inside the breast of our old butler."

"Eduard."

"Your curls wave above me, as though they were a life-boat. I catch a glimpse of your ears from time to time, that is the coast ... yes..."

"Aren't you tired of kneeling?"

"No, I'm in heaven. My only dread is that you should want to get up. Diana, I could stay here for ever."

She smiled, lay back among the cushions, and whispered:

"I thought you would kiss me."

In a flash he was on his feet, in another he had flung himself beside her on the couch, folding her in one long embrace from lips to knees. For the first time, those two young bodies, after so many palpitating months, so many moments of inspiration and happiness, felt the contact one with the other, vibrated in unison, full of pleasurable and eager expectancy, in a dream, silently.

After a while he whispered:

"Diana."

"Eduard."

"Are you mine?"

"I love you."

"Will you remain mine?"

"I'm so happy."

"Will you promise..."

"How awfully young you are!"

"Never to leave me?"

"Later."

"No. Now!"

He sprang up, pulled his tunic down, settled his collar, smoothed his hair, and sat by Diana as she lay. His last words had such a resolute ring that Diana felt she could no longer evade the issue. She raised herself on her arm, and smoothed her gown.

"My dear, won't you give me your promise?"

He spoke with the utmost simplicity, wooing her; but she heard in the words the rumble, the menace of distant thunder.

She laid her hand on his:

"Give me time..."

"Five minutes."

She took her hand away, and gazed through him into the void. He got up, stretched out his left arm abruptly, glanced at the watch on his wrist, and said composedly:

"It is now five minutes to six. I'll give you till six," and he kept his gaze fixed on the watch.

Suddenly Diana was beside him, her eyes bright with anger, her lips ready for a wrathful reply. But before the words were uttered she caught sight of the band of crape upon the sleeve of his tunic, and her expression softened, her mood changed, her body drooped; she longed to lean against him, to yield to a wish that she had been combating these many days, to seek support. Her yearning overcame her other scruples; she seemed to see her father before her once again; and, with a gentle and womanly gesture, she took Eduard's arm in her hand and kissed the black token of mourning. He, surprised and profoundly stirred by his victory, took her head in his hands, running his fingers through her curls.

When at last they drew apart, Diana crossed to the table, where the two telegrams still lay, and lifted them questioningly. But Eduard was already at her side, and wrenched them from her. She, taken aback by so autocratic a movement, reciprocated, snatching them back, and placing them under the crystal which served her as paper weight.

"What's all this, if I may ask?"

"Wires."

"Hm. To Scherer?"

"On the contrary—away from Scherer!"

"Meaning?"

"That I am going away."

"Diana!"

"Eduard?"

"It's gone six. Will you follow me?"

"I—don't want to be forced to a decision through compassion for your crape band."

"Time presses!"

"Why?"

"My car is waiting for me at the door, I've come here incognito, must be home by tonight. Tomorrow the court chamberlain administers the oath..."

"What's that to do with me?"

"I shall refuse to take it—unless you—promise..."

They stood confronting one another, the narrow table between them. His voice was thoroughly matter-of-fact, his manner outwardly calm, as he leaned his fists on the flat top of the table. She did not answer, but waited collectedly, her fingers poised on the crystal beneath which, in the form of telegrams, two ways opened before her. Thus they remained, eye to eye, silent, observant. Then, without shifting from her position, Diana asked:

"And if I refuse?"

"Formal abdication. The principality will pass to my cousin."

"What do I care for your cousin!"

"I am quite indifferent, too."

She knew the decisive hour had struck for her. Had she not long foreseen it? But she had no notion yet as to what the issue would be.

"He is waiting," thought Diana, gazing down upon the crystal, "and yet he knows that I never wanton with destiny. He woos, and yet he might well make a gift of a diadem. Shall I lure him from the path in which centuries of tradition have placed his feet? His arm will be around me, his eyes will guard me from fools and courtiers... I have just turned twenty-seven... I feel at least five years older... If one's life must inevitably become entangled with the lives of others, at least I can see to it that mine shall develop along the broadest possible lines... A park will encompass me about, but I need not see the walls...." She looked up. She saw him standing before her. She thought: "Elegant hussar, I will take you without your sacrifice!"

Eduard, never stirring a muscle, watched her as she communed with herself. He did not venture to put his question a third time.

At last she lifted her hand from the crystal, contemplated its inner surface for a moment, and smoothed the spot where the flesh had been slightly crushed by pressure on the cold surface of the stone. Then she looked over at him, her eyes begging for his hand which he slowly unclenched and slid over the smooth table towards her. She let it lie next hers for a while, comparing the lines in both their palms. Then she clasped his hand in hers, looked up at him, neither sorrowfully, nor boldly, but more gravely than he had ever seen her look before.

"Well, let's try!"

CHAPTER TEN

It was nearly eight in the evening, and still bright daylight, when on the fourth of June the closed carriage drove from the station to the Schloss Strasse. The wedding ceremony in Berlin, a civil affair at which Scherer and Tauernheim had acted as witnesses, had taken only ten minutes. Herr von Wassilko's distant attitude made it desirable to postpone a visit to him; Sidney had gone away; there was to be no religious consecration of the marriage; and public mourning for the late prince had been a good excuse for dispensing with a reception at the little palace—a formality which would have loosed a flood of questions of etiquette.

Eduard had wanted to catch the startled burghers when they were still in the initial confusion into which they had been thrown by the double interment, a regency, the death of the old prince, another funeral ceremony which had been attended by the emperor, the accession, and the taking of the coronation oath—a series of events which had given quiet people enough to talk about for a long time to come. When the news leaked out that the new sovereign prince (concerning whom the darkest rumours were already ripe) had made a left-handed marriage to a young woman of whom practically nothing was known, except that she had been the mistress of a count, and so on, and so on, their capacity for excitement had been exhausted, their minds had been saturated with alarms and crises, and they accepted the accomplished fact as one of heaven's decrees. Some even found the news interesting, looked up the record of similar marriages in Becker's Universal History, and noted that the children of morganatic unions had sometimes been granted the right of succession by the emperor and the estates of the realm. According to the latest researches, a crossing of blood was useful, and was certainly preferable to the inroad of strange collaterals into their beloved country.

When, in the end, the news was generally accepted as true, people found it impossible to stay at home. Though music and banners were out of the question because of the public mourning, and though it was late in the evening, as if by common consent they had decided to celebrate the occasion by sporting their new summer clothes which at so sad a Whitsuntide would otherwise have been left in wardrobes and drawers.

Amid multifarious duties, Eduard had found time to look forward in particular to this one evening. Accustomed as he had been, for a long time now, to think of Diana in situations in which he was used to seeing other women and chiefly women of his own order, and to watch her adapting herself to all aspects of reality—he now perceived in her restrained but free demeanour a confirmation of his premonitions. Thus it had been when the old minister of State had been introduced to her; again, at the wedding; again, when she had said good-bye to Scherer; again, when the station master had paid his respects; again, on getting into the carriage. Consequently, when they were driving to the palace he could talk to her as easily as if she had been to the manner born.

"Look, Diana," he said. "They are wearing tall hats, although it is late in the evening. Highly respectable people, ours!"

"Why are they all standing on one side of the street?"

"Because they thought you'd be sitting on my left."

Diana laughed behind her black veil, but so tonelessly that he was alarmed when he remembered how frank was her usual laughter, realizing that a constraint was for the first time imposing itself on her. To mask his embarrassment, he said:

"Houses pretty low, aren't they? Better than tall barracks!"

"And healthier," she rejoined.

"Do you find the cobbles very rough to drive over?"

"Not a bit."

"Schloss Strasse is going to be repaired soon."

"That will be a good thing."

"It has an excellent bridle path along the side."

"Is that so? Where does it go to?"

"Pretty farmsteads, good farmers, fresh milk."

"How lovely," she said, while thinking to herself: "He is the best of men, and I am driving straight into the blue of heaven."

"She is tired," mused he; "or sad. I wonder if a glass of champagne would do her good when we get in?"

"If only I could be vouchsafed a sign," thought Diana, as she sighted the castle tower.

Now, when the carriage made an unexpected turn, and a wide space in front of the castle opened into view, the sun, close to the horizon, dipped behind a small, thick cloud, lighting up its irregular edge with as much power as at high noon. Diana's heart beat furiously, but Eduard did not see what she was looking at, for his own gaze was fixed on the gates, to see if all his directions had been carried out.

Two servants, the minimum number allowed by court etiquette, were standing on the threshold; and in other respects, likewise, he had had the standard of reception kept down to that proper to a country mansion. On the first floor he led Diana into a little suite of panelled rooms. They were quite unpretentious, and yet Diana felt that he had chosen every curtain, every chair, every vase, expressly for her. She went over to the bay window, looked out into the open, and began to talk to the ancient walnut tree which towered up to the third story.

"How it rustles," she said in a low tone, turning to him.

"It is welcoming you," he answered.

"How many generations has it greeted already?"

"Three, or perhaps four."

"Are we the fifth? Five is a lucky number."

She sat down on the deep window seat in the bay, and, as she motioned him to her side, he saw her smile for the first time in her reflective way.

He seized her hand.

"Are you sad?"

"A little."

"Are you tired?"

"Not very."

"Are you ready for your dinner?"

"Yes."

He rang, and to the servant who answered, he said:

"The countess wishes to have dinner served."

"Very good, Your Highness."

The formality and baldness of these few words, the mechanical appearance and disappearance of the lackey, had all at once revived Diana's spirits. Sportively, as he turned back towards her, she flung her arms round his neck and exclaimed:

"Oh you! That was much older than the walnut tree. It dated from the Thirty Years' War!"

He was a trifle astonished, having given the order quite mechanically; but he was glad that the tension had been relieved. He said:

"Are you going to dress for dinner?"

"Very good, Your Highness!"

They dined at a small round table, waited on by two footmen who discreetly watched their prince's young wife in her low-cut dress with its crape edging, and noted that her short curls escaped from the mourning bonnet prescribed by custom. Diana and Eduard, meanwhile, refreshed by food and good wine, and enlivened by the conversation they had carried on in French, had recovered their natural gaiety. Having led her back to her boudoir, he said:

"Would your ladyship rather smoke her cigarette on deck?"

"Don't you think it rather too windy tonight, Prince?"

"North-west, eleven knots, we'll have to take in a reef!"

"And Giorgino?"

"Dr. Sergievitch must climb into the rigging."

The name had been spoken. As they sat opposite one another in the wide, tapestried chairs, Eduard saw a shade flit across her face, as if rising from her heart. But now he felt sure of himself, sitting under his forefathers' roof, with his ring on Diana's finger. Taking the bull by the horns, he said:

"With regard to Sergievitch, I have made sure of him for us."

"Us?" Diana gripped the arm of her chair.

"I mean, for this little country of mine."

"In what way?"

"I wrote to him before my father's death to ask whether he would be willing to attend to the much neglected matter of working-class welfare in this part of the world. He is an expert, took his degree in kindred topics, and would long since have been called to a professional chair in Leipzig or elsewhere had he not been a Russian. Since he is a foreigner, I shall have to make him accessory to our little ministry. Nominally he'll be librarian, though of course we have one or two learned men of our own to attend to that work. Does the idea please you?"

She smiled.

"What have I got to do with the matter?"

"Everything, Diana," he said gravely.

Standing up, he moved to lay his hand on her head. The bonnet was in his way, and he gently removed it.

"When did you write to him?"

"Some time during the week between my arrival and my father's death. Why do you ask?"

She thought: "The Russian kept that to himself when we met outside the jeweller's. Why? And why should Eduard single out this man in particular?"

She said:

"Eduard?"

"How pale you are."

"Why did you summon this Russian?"

Removing his hand from, her head, he strode twice up and down the room, and then, stopping short in front of her, said uneasily:

"Why? Not for the sake of welfare work or a library. We travelled to Vienna in the night train, and were arguing the whole time, as usual. I wanted to make sure that this explosive material would be safely housed. A hygienic precaution. The fellow incorporates the future, and we—we want to make the impossible possible, here, in Germany, the first, the only ones: you, and I!"

"Do you want a revolution?" she asked quietly.

"If I did, I should have renounced you, and should not have worried you today by putting that ring on your finger. What I want is that the call of the dissatisfied should always sound in my ears. While we are modernizing ourselves here, I want to go on hearing the voice which says: 'All that, so far, has achieved nothing!' Sergievitch represents the spire of a Gothic cathedral...."

While he still contemplated in imagination the figure of the handsome Russian, he turned the new ring round and round on his finger. Diana, standing up, said resolutely:

"You are young, and I, too, am still young! We will build a great work and make a splendid road! Whomsoever we need, we will swallow without winking, were it even a bomb-thrower!"

She stood in front of him, the brown eyes flashing into his blue ones. A wave of perfect happiness flowed through his taut frame. His eyes were fixed on the young woman who, after long hesitation, was at length to become his; he took note of the black trimming on her gown. Slowly stretching out his hand to her breast, he unfastened her brooch, she raised her arms a little, laughing at this sport of love. In the same deliberate way, he removed the sign of mourning from her shoulders, a double veil, which he dropped to the floor behind her. He looked at her, his lips trembling slightly. Then, precipitately, he clasped her in his arms.

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Table of Contents

- DIANA

- BOOK ONE

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN

- BOOK TWO

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN

- BOOK THREE

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER Two
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN

- BOOK FOUR

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER Two
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE

- BOOK FIVE

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE

- BOOK SIX

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE