colored crowd of the street, as if some enchanted vision
of spring had risen through the snow and then vanished.

"Who is that lady in the carriage filled with flowers?" asked
Darvid, turning to his companions.

"Bianca Biannetti."

That was a name which needed no commentary. Darvid smiled, with
satisfaction. It was not wonderful that Maryan and the little
baron were escorting to the station that woman of European fame,
and were taking flowers to her. Of course, of course. He himself
a number of times in his life--and if it was not offener, it was
because time had failed him.

"There will be an amusing history to-day at the station," said
the engineer. "A special train for Bianca; it is to leave five
minutes after the regular one."

"For what purpose?" asked the architect.

"It is easy to divine: to have five minutes longer to enjoy the
society of the great singer."

"An extra train! That is madness!" said Darvid. "Who did this?"

The engineer and architect exchanged significant glances, and the
former answered:

"Your son."

The skin on Darvid's face quivered, but he answered with perfect
composure:

"Ah, true! I remember Maryan told me something of this. I
persuaded him a little, but he insisted. What is to be done? Il
faut que la jeunesse se passe (youth must have its day)."

Then he gave his hand to the three men in farewell:

"I am sorry that we cannot finish our discussions to-day, but I
remember an important affair. I beg you, gentlemen, to come
to-morrow at the usual hour of my receptions."

He raised his hat and left them.

"To the station! Hurry!" said he to the driver while entering the
carriage.

At the station stood a row of cars with a locomotive sending up
steam. A throng of people were moving toward the snow-covered
platform, and hurrying to the train. Darvid came out also,
searching with his eyes for a youthful face which filled his
sleepless nights with care. At first he could not find it, but
when many people had entered the train, those assembled for the
passive role of spectators formed a group and turned their
glances toward one point upon the platform. There in the hands of
a number of people bloomed a garden of beautiful flowers, and
near them two persons were conversing with great animation. The
opera singer was an Italian, a beautiful brunette, with eyes
blazing like dark stars. Conversing with her in her own language
was a young man, younger than she, very youthful, lig