"Hullo!"
"Hullo!"
"Not going back to Vienna?"
"Yes--I'm tired of the country."
"But, man, you are pale and tired. Have you been studying up here after
your doctor bade you rest?" The concern in Bruenfeld's voice touched
Davos. He shook his head, then bethought himself of something.
"Alfred, you are acquainted with everybody in Europe. How is it you
never told me about that strange Grabowski crowd--you know, the
granddaughter of Chopin's first love?" Bruenfeld looked at him with
instant curiosity.
"You also?" he said. The young man blushed. After _that_ he could never
forgive! The other continued:--
"Granddaughter, fiddlesticks! They are not Poles, those Grabowskis, but
impostors. Their real name is--is--" Davos started.
"What, you have met them?"
"Yes, the stupid father, the odious uncle, the fair Constantia--what a
meek saint!--and that diabolical Japanese, who plays the piano like a
house on fire." Tears came to the eyes of Marco Davos.
"Did they--I mean, did _she_ take you in, too?"
"Here, at Ischl, last summer," was the grim reply.
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