The brown, Juno-like eyes were regarding her with strange curiosity, the black eyebrows were gloomily contracted; there was something so hard and haughty in her air and bearing that Ernestine took offence at it before a word had been uttered. The way in which the lady measured her with her glance from head to foot recalled to her memory the pain that she had once suffered beneath the gaze of the Staatsräthin's guests. For one second she felt in danger of the same overwhelming sensation of embarrassment. She seemed to grow pale and wither in the presence of this dazzling and haughty person. But she was no longer a child, sensible only of her defects, and the next moment the pride of conscious power came to her relief. She knew that she stood in the presence of an enemy, but she felt herself the equal of her opponent. Who was this woman who thus assumed the right to look down upon her? Whence did she derive this right?--from beauty, wealth, or rank? Did she know as much as Ernestine? Had she written a prize essay? And, more than all, did she possess such a friend as now belonged to Ernestine? No, no, assuredly not. Ernestine was her equal, whoever she might be. "Will you walk in?" said Ernestine with icy repose of manner and with a dignity that evidently impressed the countess greatly. Ernestine stood aside to allow her to pass, and motioned her towards a small sofa filling a recess of the room, while she herself took a seat opposite. Her lips were closed; no conventional grimace, usual upon the reception of a visitor, distorted the pure beauty of her grave countenance. She awaited in silence the stranger's communication; she was too unfamiliar with the forms of society to excuse herself for having kept her waiting in the antechamber. The countess at last understood that she must be the first to speak. She felt, too, in the presence of such a woman as Ernestine that her coming hither was a mistake, and it made her falter. For the first time in her life she was confused. The tables were turned. Ernestine was already the victor in this silent encounter. Hers was the victory of true self-respect over the frivolous conceit of a jealous coquette. The Worronska had failed in her part even before she began to play it. She had heard Möllner's voice and his step as he left the room. The affair, then, had gone farther than she had thought. Anger had put her off her guard, and given her a hostile air when she had come to allure and perhaps lead astray. Her error must be rectified at all hazards. She held out her hand to Ernestine and said, in her melodious Russian-German, "I am the Countess Worronska." Ernestine slightly inclined her head, and the expression of her face grew colder and more forbidding than before. "And what is your pleasure with me, Countess Worronska?"