Stella.—­How was the portrait?

Drahomir.—­With wings at the shoulders.

Stella.—­That means that I have as much dignity as a butterfly.

Drahomir.—­Angels’ wings are in harmony with their dignity.

Stella.—­True friendship should speak the truth.  Tell me some bitter one.

Drahomir.—­Very bitter?

Stella.—­As wormwood—­or as is sometimes the case—­with life.

Drahomir.—­Then you are kind to me.

Stella.—­For what sin shall I begin penitence?

Drahomir.—­For lack of friendship for me.

Stella.—­I was the first to appeal for friendship—­in what respect am
I untrue to it?

Drahomir.—­Because you share with me your joys, sports, laughter, but when a moment of sorrow comes, you keep those thorns for yourself.  Pray share with me your troubles also.

Stella.—­It is not egotism on my part.  I do not wish to disturb your serenity.

Drahomir.—­The source of my serenity does not lie in egotism either.  George told me of you when I came here:  “I know only how to look at her and how to pray to her; you are younger and more mirthful, try to amuse her.”  Therefore I brought all my good spirits and laid them at your feet.  But I notice that I have bored you.  I see a cloud on your face—­I suspect some hidden sorrow, and being your best friend, I am ready to give my life to dispel that cloud.

Stella (softly).—­You must not talk that way.

Drahomir (clasping his hands).—­Let me talk.  I was a giddy boy, but I always followed my heart, and my heart guessed your sorrow.  Since that moment a shadow fell across my joy, but I overcame it.  One cannot recall a tear which has rolled down the cheek, but a friendly hand can dry it.  Therefore I overcame that cloud in order that the tears should not come to your eyes.  If I have been mistaken, if I have chosen the wrong path, pray forgive me.  Your life will be as beautiful as a bouquet of flowers, therefore be mirthful—­be mirthful.

Stella (with emotion, giving him her hand).—­I shall be; being near you, I am capricious, spoiled, and a little bit ill.  Sometimes I do not know myself what is the matter with me, and what I wish.  I am happy; truly I am happy.

Drahomir.—­Then, no matter, as Mrs. Czeska says.  Let us be merry, laugh, and run in the garden and play pranks with the countess and her son.

Stella.—­I have discovered the source of your mirth; it is a good heart.

Drahomir.—­No, madam.  I am a great good-for-nothing.  But the source of true happiness is not in this.

Stella.—­Sometimes I think that there is none in this world.

Drahomir.—­We cannot grasp it with our common sense, and will not fly after that winged vision.  Sometimes perhaps it flies near us, but before we discover it, before we stretch out our hands, it is too late!

Stella.—­What sad words—­too late!