Munich was sheathed in ice. The bare trees of the Englischergarten, the little parks set into the city like so many jewels, the long avenue of the Leopoldstrasse, the thousand gardens, glittered with the prismatic radiance of the diamond, while the hard snow was underfoot, and the sky was like a vast blue and white flag of the House of Wittelsbach. The lake was frozen, and gay with skating parties. The Isar alone flowed too swiftly to be caught in the ice grasp. It was intensely cold, clear, brilliant, tonic. Margarethe opened the window of her tower and stood looking out at the arctic splendours winter had given to the park beyond the light green belt of water. Once more she felt something of the exaltation of spirit that in the old days she had been able almost to summon at will, and that had never tarried before such inspiration as this.

But she moved away in a moment with an impatient sigh and returned to the warm comfort of the gallery. It was now four months since she had seen Ordham, and she was still unable to break the mental habit of discussing all things interesting with him, invoking him to share her pleasure. She had but just now called his attention to the contrast of the beryl green of the river with the crystal groves beyond. Yesterday she had caught herself discussing A Rebours with him. Was it not time to banish this senseless habit?

It was, of course, the effect of living alone, and some time since she had made up her mind to go constantly into society upon its return, become a persistent seeker after the lighter distractions of the world. She sighed again as she thought of that ideal life she had led in this villa by the Isar for nearly seven years, and which she found it impossible to renew. But she had opened the gates of her Eden deliberately, and it was fair that she should pay the price.

She had made no attempt to develop her infrequent interchange of notes with Ordham into a correspondence, partly because she knew that a young bridegroom has no reserve fund of sentiment, no active memories of the past, partly because she had persuaded herself of a firm belief in the wisdom of severed relations. But yesterday she had received a call from Princess Nachmeister, who had been flitting about, avoiding her castle after a brief sojourn in the summer, as she was in an economical temper and indisposed to entertain a horde of relatives. In Paris she had met Mrs. Cutting, whose detention in New York had been mercifully brief, and had gone with her to Ordham Castle. Immediately upon her return to Munich she had flown to her admirable Styr with news of their jüngling. The Ordhams were entertaining one great house party after another, and in the most brilliant fashion imaginable. Those Americans! They cared not what they spent. Mabel received with the aplomb of six seasons, and was increasingly beautiful, with frocks—But frocks! New ones came every week from Paris. In spite of a certain expected event, mercifully distant, she was quite well, and with that tall slender figure—enfin! The jüngling? He was the most perfect host imaginable. He even sacrificed himself and rode to hounds with his guests; a lazy careless rider, but often in the lead, nevertheless. Need she ask? So much exercise and outdoor life had improved him; he was beginning to have a more lusty look, while losing nothing of that aloof air, that perfect courtesy. But he glowed. Ah, yes! no doubt with happiness as well as health. His career? She had had but few words with him on the subject, for with royalties, she could not sit beside him at dinner; but once or twice he had managed to place her next to him at luncheon; yes, she had asked him, and he had said that no doubt he should go abroad late in the following year, that fortunately these unavoidable delays would not ruin his prospects. But he had spoken languidly; it was evident that he was well content. And why not? Gott! but that was a life. Forty million marks and as much again when dear Adela was gathered to her American ancestors. Gott! One of the greatest places in England virtually his own, a broken-down elder brother, and a lovely wife!

“I forgot that I had been so ambitious for him,” continued the old dame, contritely. “I said: ‘But this is enough. Why fly in the face of providence by asking all things? And if dear Mabel is so opposed to life on our Continent—what substitute, indeed, could we offer her, since she does not mind the climate of this island?’ And he said, in his old manner: ‘Of course. Why indeed? She is so happy that I am almost in love with England myself. It is all very wonderful.’ Then when I was gone from that enchanted scene, I reproached myself. Shall he bury those great abilities in matrimony, in society, in that country which is always making great men but very properly sending them elsewhere? Is he not made to manipulate the destinies of Europe? I should have remonstrated instead of weakly yielding, almost participating in his happiness, the charming creature! It was such a delight to hear him jest and run on in his old fashion, to see him happy as the young should be happy. We must trust to time. He will wake up. It may be two years, three. But he was born to be a diplomatist and a great one, and that is not for nothing. Mabel may rule now, he may be philosophically happy, but—”

Judiciously interrogated, the keen old observer admitted that Mabel was selfish, spoilt, “American.” She loved Ordham. But yes! Was it not his lot to be loved? Too much, no doubt. He had the gift, the genius of charm, and when a young thing was married to him—enfin! Had she, Olivia Nachmeister, been fifty years younger, she should have married and worshipped him herself. But Mabel had no real sensuousness in her nature, none of those strong emotions that make the woman the willing subject of a resolute man. She loved, yes; but with youth, selfishness, vanity, romantic sentiment, the instinct of the race. That little brain would be cool and calculating in its fondest moments. He might win if ever it came to a great battle of two wills, crush that poor little butterfly, who fancied herself a personage of vast importance; but he never would manage her. But never! That was her part, and whether he recognized that fact, and was resigned, other causes keeping him in England, or whether he was merely enthralled, she could not say. But he had a jaw. Ma foi, but a jaw! And Mabel had been indulged like a—well, an American princess (“Who more disciplined than ours?”), from the moment she screeched in her cradle. “Some day—well, what matter? Do not all have their troubles? They are fortunate, those two, but they are not immortals. Think of our beloved King, and of Rudolph von Hapsburg. But the future Bridgminster has one talent denied these poor princes, what you call ‘landing on his feet.’ Through no management of his, perhaps, but destiny—women?—Yes, shall not we always arrange that he alights in the safe spot, dry, sound, whole, even if he............