A few moments later she was receiving the compliments of the ministers, most of whom she had met while her father was in Budapest. She was Archduchess of Austria and Princess of Hungary once more, touched with the happy informality of her brother. The members of the press had been requested to leave the room. The Deputies were standing at their desks regarding her with deep attention, and she played to them quite as much as to the ministers. She stood just beneath the elevated seat of the President, and its sombre dignity made the proper background for her noble height and brilliant hair. She wore a large black hat and a gown of black velvet whose jacket opened over the white softness of chiffons. The color was still in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, her short upper lip curved in a smile which was less gracious than youthful, and revealed teeth whose like from time immemorial have inspired man with longing and forgiveness. Her eyes wandered several times to the benches of the Extreme Left. These men also stood at their posts. There was one who overtopped his fellows by a head. This head was shaped like a cannon-ball and surrounded by harsh black hair. His nose was short and thick, but the face was strongly built and the small black eyes dashed beneath a permanent frown. She turned to the President. “Who is that man?” she asked. “Molnár Lajos.” He gave the names in the Hungarian sequence. “He is one of the most influential and violent of the Obstructionists, and gives us far more trouble than the son of Kossuth.” “Present him to me.” The great Liberal magnate hesitated. He thought of his king and turned pale. His eye sought that of the Obersthofmeisterin. She raised her brows expressively and lifted one shoulder. The President, wondering, for he had known Sarolta through many imperious years, turned and walked over to the young Radical. For a moment it was apparent that the disciple of Kossuth hesitated, but he had the courtesy of his race, and he hardly could decline to meet even an archduchess whose smiling eyes were not twenty feet from his. Moreover, she was young and beautiful. He felt that an apologetic glance at his colleagues was unnecessary, and a moment later he was bowing stiffly before the daughter of the king he hated. Ranata began in the royal manner. “I found your remarks very interesting. Do you speak often?” “My painful duty compels me to, your Royal Highness.” “Painful?” She looked at him with melting eyes. “Are you ill? Pardon me--you look very strong.” “You misunderstand me.” (“I will not tag on your Royal Highness to every sentence,” he registered.) “It is Hungary that is ill.”