nobody like her. Her father was rich, surfeited with riches, and had bought one of the Grand Ducal Schlosses. What was it that the Courier had said about his undeserved reputation and the "romantic isolation of his life"? He was the object of the hatred of aggrieved rivals—that was the effect of the article. And her nostrils had distended with anger. There was nobody like her, nobody near or far. She was an exception. And suppose she had been at the Citizens' Ball on that occasion? He would then have had a companion, would not have made a fool of himself, and would not have ended the evening in despair. "Down, down, down with him!" Phew! Just think of how she looked as she walked, dark and pale and wonderful, down the ranks of fair-haired soldiers.
These were the thoughts which occupied Klaus Heinrich during the next few days—just these three or four mental pictures. And the strange thing is that they were amply sufficient for him, and that he did not want any more. But all things considered, it seemed to him more than desirable that he should get another glimpse of the pearly-white face soon, to-day if possible.
In the evening he went to the Court Theatre, where The Magic Flute was being played. And when from his box he descried Miss Spoelmann next to Countess Löwenjoul in the front of the circle, a tremor went right through him. During the opera he could watch her out of the darkness through his opera-glasses, for the light from the stage fell on her. She laid her head on her small, ringless hand, while she rested her bare arm on the velvet braid, and she did not look angry now. She wore a dress of glistening sea-green silk with a fight scarf on which bright flowers were embroidered, and round her neck a long chain of sparkling diamonds. She really was not so small as she looked, Klaus Heinrich decided, when she stood up at the end of the act. No, the childish shape of her head and the
