All the essayists on friendship notwithstanding, Mr. Neuchamp felt distinctly aggrieved. There was he, rushing back upon the wings of—well—intelligent and sympathetic friendship, willing to resume the delightful æsthetic intercourse which compulsory absence had alone interrupted, and now, apparently, he needed not to have come at all. Antonia was fully occupied, no doubt interested, by the first frivolous foreigner that came in her way, and was singing duets and so on, as if she had no higher aspiration than to listen for ever to a German band. Entering the drawing-room, Ernest presented himself just as the Count (of course it was the Count, confound him!) was singing the _dich der folgen_ portion of the melody with, as Ernest thought, ridiculously exaggerated emphasis. He made the most of his eyes—which were really fine—rolled them in an excess of admiration, and throwing the fullest expressive force into the concluding stanza, sighed and bowed low with admiring respect to the fair pianist. She smiled not wholly with displeasure, and as she turned she met the somewhat grave and fixed regard of Ernest Neuchamp. ‘Pray excuse me for disturbing your musical entertainment, Miss Frankston,’ he said, with a coldness unlike anything she had ever observed in his manner before. Antonia’s colourless face, which had flushed slightly at the suddenness of the _contretemps_, regained its habitual serene delicacy of hue, as she calmly observed— ‘The Count von Schätterheims and I have been practising German duets for a _matinée_ that Mrs. Folleton gives next week, and that all Sydney is wild about. It is quite a treat to have the aid of one who understands the genius of the poetry and music so thoroughly. Permit me to introduce you to the Count, Mr. Neuchamp.’ The foreign nobleman, a tall, fair man, with a moustache like a Pandour, bowed graciously, and resumed the musical subject. ‘Ah! I did know Mendelssohn so well as mine fader. He lif at our house when he come to Munich. He always say I was born for a _maestro_.’ ‘And why did you not fulfil his prediction, Count?’ asked Antonia, much interested. ‘De sword,’ said Von Schätterheims with a grave, sad air. ‘You vill comprehent, he vas too moosh for de lyre. I join de movement of freedom. I haf commant, wit poor Körner. He die in dese arms.’ ‘The lyre—ahem!’ said Ernest, smiling grimly at his utterly unjustifiable _mot_, ‘has reasserted his right, I should say. Did not Körner die in 18—?’ (Here he quoted the memorable ‘Sword Song’ in the original.) ‘Ha!’ said the Count, a new expression, not only of satisfaction, pervading his features, ‘thou hast seen the Faderland. No Englander ever learned a so _heimlich_ acsend who drank not in youth the beer at _Studenten-Kneipe_—we must have _Brüderschaft_. Is it not so?’ ‘Do you think we can manage “Die Schwalben,” Count?‘ asked Antonia.