many a countess might envy her. Yet, it won't do,
Ernest, give it up--yes, I will talk to her brother; we will do all
that is right to be done, only do you go away now, and leave me to
myself for half an hour. Why,' he went on, as his son still kept hold
of his hand; 'are you not satisfied that I should have done this
proposal of yours the honor of thinking it worth a moment's
consideration? Enough of this! I say again. I acknowledge the kindness
of your heart, that would be glad to see me happy; but hearts are giddy
things, and are apt to come to their senses after it is too late.'"

"And he talked on in this style, without ever once looking at his son.
Then he got up, went to the piano, struck a chord or two, went to the
window, and shut it hastily.

"'There is something in this you will not tell me,' said his son. 'You
are disturbed. You have a reason you will not give me for not doing as
I request. I know your way of looking on these disparities of position;
therefore it is not that--and what else can it be? For I see by your
agitation that the young lady is not indifferent to you.'

"He waited for an answer, in vain. 'I know,' at length he said, very
sadly, in a tone of deep dejection; 'I have never been so fortunate as
to find my way to your confidence, though, God knows, I have sought it
with all my heart; and I never regretted this so much as I do now, but
I have been forgetting myself--this conversation has lasted too long
already. You think it absurd that a son should take his father's
happiness to heart. I have only now to beg your pardon, and to say
good-bye.'

"The count turned from the window to look at his son from head to foot,
as if he would read through him.

"'Go out into the world, my son, and let the bitter blasts from the
so-called summits of society blow over your brains a while, and cool
down the effervescence of that strange fanciful heart of yours, and
blow away the last of your romantic prejudices. You will soon come and
thank me for not having consented to give you a young stepmother, and
perhaps a batch of younger brothers. Your fortune would never be
sufficient to enable you to move with ease in the society to which you
belong, if you had to divide it with a young stepmother, and possibly
with other children, far less if you gave it up to them, and had to
live on your mother's portion only. On the other hand, a woman I had
made a countess of, I should not choose to leave a beggar. Now,