The moment was favorable, the ice of Ranata’s three days’ reserve being broken, but Alexandra hesitated to introduce the subject of Fessenden. When Ranata chose to be unfathomable there was an aloofness about her which suggested that her soul was surrounded by the watchful ghosts of all her ancestors. She had never looked more aloof than to-day, despite the apparent frivolity of her conversation. She was standing very straight, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the roofs of Pest, glittering in fragments through the leaves of Buda. In the deep shade of the tree her face looked like marble, her hair like metal. There had been no coolness between the girls since the day of the _festa_. They had been much together and talked on any other subject; but it had been evident to Alexandra that a part of the Archduchess’s mind had been bent introspectively, and she had retired to her bedroom earlier and left it later than was her habit. How Fessenden had impressed her, what tortuous train of thought she had been following, Alexandra felt it would be folly to guess, for she knew there were depths and ways in that mind no friend would ever enter. But it was her policy never to manifest surprise, except at some lighter erraticism, and she did not lift an eyebrow when Ranata turned to her and said sweetly: “Do you think your brother would dine with us to-night? We were to have been forty, but Sarolta tells me that Count Ábris Teleky is ill.” “I am sure Fessenden would be delighted.” “Will you write, or shall Sarolta send him a formal invitation?” “I will write. Perhaps I had better go at once.” “I will wait for you here.” “How did she know he is in Pest?” wondered Miss Abbott, as she ran up the steps in the terrace wall. “And _what_ is she up to?” When she returned, Ranata was sitting on the rustic bench staring at the ground. Alexandra sat down beside her. “What do you think of Count Zrinyi’s invitation to visit his castle in the Transylvanian Alps?” she asked.