‘Are you glad?’ asked the boy, in a low voice, as they hung up their hats in the vestibule. ‘Nay, _mein Bester_--time alone can tell me that. I know no more than you. But here--how did she come here?’ CHAPTER XVI. ‘Mais pourquoi pour ces gens un intérêt si grand?’ One evening--it was Sunday, the day after that drive into the country--Sebastian Mallory strolled into the drawing-room where his mother sat, and, glancing round, seated himself, without speaking at the piano, on which he struck some aimless chords, which presently developed into a coherent harmony, in a style _un poco pesante_. He played the first bars of Liszt’s second _Rhapsodie Hongroise_, and then paused. ‘What is that thumping thing?’ inquired Mrs. Mallory, whose many mental superiorities did not include an understanding of the art of music. ‘This “thumping thing,” as you so justly term it, is a “Hungarian Rhapsody,” by that Thor the Hammerer of pianoforte music, Franz Liszt.’ ‘I am as wise as I was before.’ ‘_N’importe!_ Where is Hugo, I wonder?’ No reply. ‘You have not seen him?’ ‘I saw him leave the garden about an hour ago.’ ‘Gone out for a walk, I suppose. I am glad he can find anywhere to go to.’ ‘Sebastian, may I ask how long a visit that boy is to pay here?’ ‘Visit!’ said Sebastian, turning round on the music stool, in some surprise; ‘why, Hugo lives with me. I thought you knew.’ Mrs. Mallory lowered her favourite weapon, the feathery screen. ‘Lives with you? What will you say?’ ‘I can but repeat my previous statement. He is my ward--you do know that, mother--but then we drop that connection as much as possible. I suppose we are more like brothers than anything else.’ ‘You are the guardian of his property, then? He is a _von_--is he of noble family?’ ‘Two questions. He is of noble family. Von Birkenau is a good old name, and he is the last of his race. As for property, he has none--not a scrap.’ ‘How came you to be his guardian? It was very extraordinary--so young a man as you. Had his family, or whoever left him to you, any claims upon you?’ ‘It was his mother who left him to me, because I asked her to. She had no claims upon me in the legal sense of the word; only the claim of having been my great friend, and the source of inestimable benefit to me. Paula von Birkenau was a woman in a thousand, beautiful, good, and gifted; and, I am sorry to say, very unhappy.’ Mrs. Mallory, watching her son’s face, thought how odd it was that he should have such queer, out-of-the-way ideas and tastes. What could there be in this memory of an impecunious German countess to bring that smile to his lips, and that light of subdued enthusiasm to his eyes? ‘If her son has no property, how did she manage to live?’