The girl bowed awkwardly, and for an instant under her light lashes there was a flash of dark blue as she stepped timidly forward. The brush did not reach the cobweb. She had to step up on her tiptoes. Her entire face flushed with a beautiful red glow, her dark-blue eye lifted itself towards the ceiling, her delicate white throat was in full outline, and below it there appeared among the fringes of the yellow shawl a string of imitation corals on the snowwhite folds of her blouse. Add to this the dainty foot of a princess and acknowledge—it was an alluring picture.
When all that was objectionable had been removed, the baroness tapped Marianka graciously on the shoulder and asked, “What is your name?”
“Marie Foltýnova,” whispered the girl.
“Foltýn? Foltýn? What is your father?”
“The gate-keeper, your Grace!”
“Doubtless the man with the drum,” suggested the baron, and a light smile passed over his face.
“Go into the next room and wait for me,” said the baroness to the girl. When she had departed, the baroness turned to her husband with these words: “A charming maiden. What do you think of her?”
“Well, it’s a matter of taste.”
“I say—charming! Unusually beautiful figure, a most winsome face and withal such modesty!”
“The statuette is threatened with a rival.”
“Jokes aside, what do you say to my training her
