"I should not be Tisza's daughter if I did not believe a little in all
that is romantic, fantastic, improbable, impossible even. Besides, the
opals are forgiven now: for they have permitted me to show you that you
were not unknown to me, Prince; and, as you see, I wear this dear agraffe
always. It has a double value to me, since it recalls the memory of my
poor mother and the name of a hero."

She spoke these words in grave, sweet accents, which seemed more
melodious to Prince Andras than all the music of Baroness Dinati's
concert. He divined that Marsa Laszlo found as much pleasure in speaking
to him as he felt in listening. As he gazed at her, a delicate flush
spread over Marsa's pale, rather melancholy face, tingeing even her
little, shell-like ears, and making her cheeks glow with the soft, warm
color of a peach.

Just at this moment the little Baroness came hastily up to them, and,
with an assumed air of severity, began to reproach Marsa for neglecting
the unfortunate musicians, suddenly breaking off to exclaim:

"Really, you are a hundred times prettier than ever this evening, my dear
Marsa. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Oh! it is because I am very happy, I suppose," replied Marsa.

"Ah! my dear Prince," and the Baroness broke into a merry peal of
laughter, "it is you, O ever-conquering hero, who have worked this
miracle."

But, as if she had been too hasty in proclaiming aloud her happiness, the
Tzigana suddenly frowned, a harsh, troubled look crept into her dark