'Formerly, perhaps. But we have changed all that.' Then he went up to the Countess, and kissed her hand. There was, however, no attempt at the affectionate embrace with which in the old days he had always greeted her; as though accidentally, he avoided the armchair which stood vacant between the ladies, and threw himself on a seat near Hedwig. There was a certain nervous haste and restlessness in all his movements which had never before characterized them, and a like feverish excitableness was to be remarked in his voice and manner, as in the course of conversation he passed from one subject to another, never pursuing any for more than a few minutes. 'Hedwig was becoming very anxious at your long absence,' remarked the Countess. 'Anxious?' repeated Edmund. 'What in the world could make you anxious, Hedwig? Were you afraid I might be buried beneath a drift?' 'No; but I do not like these wild rides of yours about the country. You have grown so extremely reckless and imprudent of late.' 'Nonsense! you are a dauntless horsewoman yourself, and never show the smallest signs of fear when we ride out together.' 'When you are with me you are more careful, but whenever you go out alone you rush along at a mad pace which is positively dangerous.' 'Bah, dangerous! No danger will touch me, you may rely upon it.' The words conveyed none of the old merry, lighthearted confidence wherewith the young Count had been wont to boast of his happy star. On the contrary, they seemed rather to imply a challenge to Fate, a mute impeachment of its hard decrees. The Countess raised her eyes slowly, and fixed on her son a stern and sombre gaze. He, however, seemed not to remark this, but continued more lightly: 'It is to be hoped we may have finer weather for our shooting to-morrow. I am expecting some gentlemen who will probably be here this afternoon.' 'Why, two days ago the whole neighbourhood was gathered together for a monster shooting-party here at Ettersberg, and the day after to-morrow we are to have exactly the same affair over at Brunneck.' 'Does the invitation displease you?' asked Edmund jestingly, 'I certainly ought first to have solicited the gracious permission of you ladies, and really the thought of my omission overwhelms me with confusion.' 'Hedwig is right,' said the Countess. 'You do exact too much of us all just now. We have not had a day to ourselves for weeks, not one quiet day without visitors to receive or visits to pay. I shall be glad to retire into my nook at Schönfeld and to leave you to continue this fatiguing round of dissipation by yourselves.' But a few months previously, such an allusion to the approaching separation would have called forth from Edmund an energetic protest, a warm appeal. He had always vowed that he could not live without his mother. Now he was silent; by not a syllable did he gainsay her resolution, nor did he reproach her for her longing to depart.