“I don’t remember,” said the lady, “that mamma ever told me it was like this.”

“Mamma never told you anything disagreeable.  And it ’s not like this—­every day.  You will see that to-morrow we shall have a splendid day.”

“Qu’en savez-vous?  To-morrow I shall go away.”

“Where shall you go?”

“Anywhere away from here.  Back to Silberstadt.  I shall write to the Reigning Prince.”

The young man turned a little and looked at her, with his crayon poised. 
“My dear Eugenia,” he murmured, “were you so happy at sea?”

Eugenia got up; she still held in her hand the drawing her brother had given her.  It was a bold, expressive sketch of a group of miserable people on the deck of a steamer, clinging together and clutching at each other, while the vessel lurched downward, at a terrific angle, into the hollow of a wave.  It was extremely clever, and full of a sort of tragi-comical power.  Eugenia dropped her eyes upon it and made a sad grimace.  “How can you draw such odious scenes?” she asked.  “I should like to throw it into the fire!” And she tossed the paper away.  Her brother watched, quietly, to see where it went.  It fluttered down to the floor, where he let it lie.  She came toward the window, pinching in her waist.  “Why don’t you reproach me—­abuse me?” she asked.  “I think I should feel better then.  Why don’t you tell me that you hate me for bringing you here?”

“Because you would not believe it.  I adore you, dear sister!  I am delighted to be here, and I am charmed with the prospect.”

“I don’t know what had taken possession of me.  I had lost my head,” Eugenia went on.

The young man, on his side, went on plying his pencil.  “It is evidently a most curious and interesting country.  Here we are, and I mean to enjoy it.”

His companion turned away with an impatient step, but presently came back.  “High spirits are doubtless an excellent thing,” she said; “but you give one too much of them, and I can’t see that they have done you any good.”

The young man stared, with lifted eyebrows, smiling; he tapped his handsome nose with his pencil.  “They have made me happy!”

“That was the least they could do; they have made you nothing else.  You have gone through life thanking fortune for such very small favors that she has never put herself to any trouble for you.”

“She must have put herself to a little, I think, to present me with so admirable a sister.”

“Be serious, Felix.  You forget that I am your elder.”

“With a sister, then, so elderly!” rejoined Felix, laughing.  “I hoped we had left seriousness in Europe.”

“I fancy you will find it here.  Remember that you are nearly thirty years old, and that you are nothing but an obscure Bohemian—­a penniless correspondent of an illustrated newspaper.”

“Obscure as much as you please, but not so much of a Bohemian as you think.  And not at all penniless!  I have a hundred pounds in my pocket.  I have an engagement to make fifty sketches, and I mean to paint the portraits of all our cousins, and of all their cousins, at a hundred dollars a head.”