The Countess turned very pale, but she had been too long accustomed to this shy avoidance, this horror of her embrace, to be offended by it. So it had been for months, but the mother could not, or would not, understand that her son's love was altogether lost to her. 'Think of my request,' she said, collecting her energies. 'Take some care of yourself for Hedwig's sake. Show some prudence and moderation; you owe it both to her and to yourself.' Then she rose from her seat and left the room, hesitating yet a moment on the threshold. Perhaps she hoped to be detained; if so, the hope was futile. Edmund stood quite motionless, not looking up until she had quitted the room. Left thus alone, the young Count drew himself erect, gazed for some minutes fixedly at the door through which his mother had passed, and then, going up to the window, pressed his hot brow against the panes. Now that he knew himself to be alone, the mask of gaiety with which he sought to deceive those about him fell, and in its place came an expression so gloomy, so despairing, that the Countess's anxiety seemed but too fully justified. Sombre and terrible must have been the thoughts which racked the young man's mind as he stood there, looking out at the now thickly-falling snow. So completely was he absorbed by them, that he did not hear the door open, and was only conscious of another presence when the rustling of a dress near him roused him from his brooding. Then he started and turned round. 'Ah, you are there, Hedwig. Have you told your father he may expect us?' Hedwig could hardly have caught sight of her lover's face, but from the tone of his voice she became aware that for a moment he had given up all feigning. Instead of replying to his question, she laid her hand on his, and said very quietly: 'What is the matter with you, Edmund?' 'With me? nothing. I was inwardly swearing at the weather, which promises us nothing good for to-morrow. I know what this driving snow portends when once it fairly sets in among our mountains. Very possibly we shall be blockaded to-morrow, and not able to get out into the woods at all.' 'Well, give up your sport then. You take no real pleasure in it.' Edmund frowned. 'Why should I not take pleasure in it?' he asked, in rather an angry tone. 'That question I should put to you. Why have you lost pleasure in all that you cared for formerly? Am I never to learn the trouble that is tormenting you and weighing on your spirits? I have, it seems to me, the best right to know it.' 'This is a regular inquisition,' cried Edmund, laughing. 'How can you take a momentary caprice, a mere passing bout of ill-humour, so seriously to heart? But I notice you have got into the way of striking the pathetic chord on every possible occasion. If I would consent to do my part, we should be a most sentimental couple; unfortunately, I think that to be sentimental is invariably to be ridiculous.'