"I thank you," she rejoined, with a glance of fervid gratitude raised for an instant to his face; "it would, however, have been but natural for you to disbelieve in any genuine pride on my part." "If I had done so before, this winter would have convinced me of my error," he replied, in a low voice, bending towards her. He saw her sudden blush; her breath came quicker and her lips quivered. She said nothing, but she looked at him again, and in her eyes there was so much gratitude and happiness that Bernhard was involuntarily touched. Suddenly her hand trembled, and the blush on her cheek faded, to be succeeded by a mortal pallor. "Let us go," she murmured, pausing abruptly and turning from the direction in which they were walking; "for God's sake take me away from here!" "What is the matter?" "Good heavens, do you not see?" She took her hand from his arm and tried to penetrate alone the crowd which had gathered closely about the dancers. Bernhard looked around him,--a few steps off stood a tall, rather good-looking man, in the dress of a civilian, watching the dancers. Bernhard recognized the dark, sharply-defined features, the lofty brow, and the thin hair brushed away from the temples. He knew now why Julutta Wronsky had turned and fled. For an instant he hesitated; then he followed her. Just as he reached her she covered her eyes with her hand. "I am so dizzy," she moaned; "the whole room is turning round. Oh, my God!" She tottered and seemed about to fall. Bernhard supported her to the foyer, where he found an armchair for her. Her hand trembled perceptibly upon his arm; she shivered. He addressed no word to her; she sank into the chair without speaking again, and, leaning back, half closed her eyes. "Find my husband for me; we must go," she said, at last. "You are ill. Let me bring you a glass of wine," he said, looking at her marble-white face. She shook her head. "I cannot breathe here, now that I know----" Her lips quivered, and she did not finish her sentence. Bernhard stood hesitating for a moment beside her. "Go!" she entreated again. And he went to let Wronsky know that his wife had suddenly been taken ill and wished to leave the hall. A quarter of an hour afterwards Bernhard was standing alone at the head of the broad steps, looking listlessly down upon the surging crowd. The stranger whom he had observed was no longer there; the Wronskys had gone home. Bernhard thought the opera-ball rather stupid. "Aha! where is your beautiful companion?" asked Herr von Dollen, suddenly appearing. "Gone home," Bernhard answered, rather brusquely. "Remarkable woman; cold and hard as an icicle, but piquante. You are very intimate there, eh?" "Scarcely that. But the Wronskys are neighbours of ours." "Ah! then you really know something of them, and can tell me about the lady's former marriage. They say it was short and unhappy, but no one seems to know whether she is a widow or a _divorcée_. She never alludes to her past----"