“Were you such friends?” asked Mrs. Vanderlyn with awe.

“We were schoolmates at the College in Bonn,” he answered.  “We have drunk the hoffbrau together—­in a beer garden.”

Gone was all the scorn of Mrs. Vanderlyn.  Quite forgotten, to all outward seeming, were her apprehensions lest the old musician’s daughter might be unworthy of her son, her fears lest the old man, himself, should prove to be a handicap upon her social aspirations.  She was still running through the papers, and, it must be said, with real intelligence and understanding, and her face was beaming with delight.  It was as if from the beginning she had favored him and Anna and was now delighted to find confirmation of the confidence which she had felt in them.

“How absolutely splendid!” she exclaimed.  “John, it is really true.  I know my Almanach de Gotha—­all the titles.”  Turning, now, to Kreutzer, she beamed upon him with a cordial smile which plainly took no count of all the frowns which, in the past few minutes, she had sent in his direction.  “But Lichtenstahl is a magnificent estate.  How does it happen that you—­”

“The estate was lost to me, Madame, through the folly of my ancestors; but—­their pride I have inherited.  Therefore, although I know that I cannot prevent this marriage, I will not give consent to it.”  He turned, now, to his daughter.  “Rather, Anna, I go from your life forever!”

“You shall not!” the girl cried.  “You are my dear, kind father.  I won’t let you go alone.  I’ll stay with you, close beside you, while you live.”

She threw herself into his arms and Kreutzer, there enfolding her, looked proudly out above the wonderful bowed head of the distressed and sobbing girl at Mrs. Vanderlyn.  This time there was a note of triumph in his voice—­a note of triumph which had not been there, even when he had made the announcement of the glory of his birth and family.

Mrs. Vanderlyn looked at them in chagrin.  A slow flush spread upon her face.

“Now, mother,” her son asked, “what have you to say?”

She forced a sigh as of a self-effacing resignation, but upon her face there lurked, in spite of her, a little smirk of satisfaction—­of snobbery which had been gratified, at last, after many disappointments.  Her manner had changed utterly.  Her tones were honeyed, now; her glance was quite as sweetly motherly as she could make it as she looked from Anna to her questioner and back again.

“What have I to say?  My boy, I cannot let you lose your happiness....  And the dear man’s confession has made everything so different!” An ecstatic smile spread on her face.  “Why, John, he is a friend of the dear Emperor!” She turned, now, again to Kreutzer.  Everything considered she made good weather of it on a difficult occasion.  “My dear Count,” she pleaded, “won’t you reconsider, please?”

The old flute-player shook his head.  “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Madame, but it is impossible—­impossible.”