the larger towns in Bohemia, the girl was his daughter. After a little while he purposely visited their town and ventured to call on the family. He was received with civility—no more. The girl was a distinguished personality, but she was very cold. Her eyes had plainly shown him her astonishment when he presented himself: ‘Does our accidental meeting in Dresden give you the right to follow me to the bosom of my family?’ they seemed to say.
He went away, and a week later boldly asked for her hand. He wrote to her and to her father at the same time. The father’s letter was very polite; he evaded the disagreeable duty of a direct answer by the promise that his daughter herself should send the decision.
She had decided. Graciously but firmly she rejected his proposal.
‘Well, that’s finished,’ Hron said to himself, ‘now I must leave it alone. I suppose I am not important enough for her.’
But then the unexpected thing had happened: he saw from the newspapers six months later that her father’s business had failed.
This news produced a strange sensation in Ivan Hron. He could have shouted for joy. How would his chances stand now? He
