VII IMMA (continued 3)

“That depends on the Countess,” she said, busying herself with piling the volumes one on the other. “Countess, the Prince wants to see my books. Would you be so kind as to say what you think?”

Countess Löwenjoul was in a brown study. With her small head bent, she was watching Klaus Heinrich with a sharp, almost hostile look, and then let her eyes wander to Imma Spoelmann, when her expression altered and became gentle, sympathetic, and anxious. She came to herself with a smile, and drew a little watch out of her brown, close-fitting dress.

“At seven o'clock,” she said brightly, “Mr. Spoelmann expects you to read to him, Imma. You have half an hour in which to do what his Royal Highness wants.”

“Good; come along, Prince, and inspect my study,” said Imma. “And so far as your Highness permits it, please lend a hand in carrying up these books; I'll take half.”

But Klaus Heinrich took them all. He clasped them in both arms, though the left was not much use to him, and the pile reached to his chin. Then, bending backwards and going carefully, so as to drop nothing, he followed Imma over into the wing towards the drive, on the main floor of which lay Countess Löwenjoul's and Miss Spoelmann's quarters.

In the big, comfortable room which they entered through a heavy door he laid his burden down on the top of a hexagonal ebony table, which stood in front of a big gold-chintzed sofa. Imma Spoelmann's study was not furnished in the style proper to the Schloss, but in more modern taste, without any show, but with massive, masculine, serviceable luxury. It was panelled with rare woods right up to the top, and adorned with old porcelain, which glittered on the brackets all round under the ceiling. The carpets were Persian, the mantelpiece black marble, on which stood shapely vases and a gilt clock. The chairs were broad and velvet-covered, and the curtains of the same golden stuff as the sofa-cover. A capacious desk stood in front of the bow-window, which allowed a view of the big basin in front of the Schloss. One wall was covered with books, but the main library was in the adjacent room, which was smaller, and carpeted like the big one. A glass door opened into it, and its walls were completely covered with bookshelves right up to the ceiling.

“Well, Prince, there's my hermitage,” said Imma Spoelmann. “I hope you like it.”

“Why, it's glorious,” he said. But he did not look round him, but gazed unintermittently at her, as she reclined against the sofa cushions by the hexagonal table. She was wearing one of her beautiful indoor dresses, a summer one this time, made of white accordion-pleated stuff, with open sleeves and gold embroidery on the yoke. The skin of her arms and neck seemed brown as meerschaum against the white of the dress; her big, bright, earnest eyes in the strangely childlike face seemed to speak a language of their own unceasingly, and a smooth wisp of black hair hung across her forehead. She had Klaus Heinrich's rose in her hand.

“How lovely!” he said, standing before her, and not conscious of what he meant. His blue eyes, above the national cheek-bones, were heavy as with grief. “You have as many books,” he added, “as my sister Ditlinde has flowers.”

“Has the Princess so many flowers?”

“Yes, but of late she has not set so much store by them.”

“Let's clear these away,” she said and took up some books.

“No, wait,” he said anxiously. “I've such a lot to say to you, and our time is so short. You must know that to-day is my birthday—that's why I came and brought you the rose.”

“Oh,” she said, “that is an event. Your birthday to-day? Well, I'm sure that you received all your congratulations with the dignity you always show. You may have mine as well! It was sweet of you to bring me the rose, although it has its doubtful side.” And she tried the mouldy smell once more with an expression of fear on her face. “How old are you to-day, Prince?”

“Twenty-seven,” he answered. “I was born twenty-seven years ago in the Grimmburg. Ever since then I've had a strenuous and lonely time of it.”

She did not answer. And suddenly he saw her eyes, under her slightly frowning eye-brows, move to his side. Yes, although he was standing sideways to her with his right shoulder towards her, as he had trained himself to do, he could not prevent her eyes fastening on his left arm, on the hand which he had planted right back on his hip.

“Were you born with that?” she asked softly.

He grew pale. But with a cry, which rang like a cry of redemption, he sank down before her, and clasped her wondrous form in both his arms. There he lay, in his white trousers and his blue and red coat with the major's shoulder-straps.

“Little sister,” he said, “little sister——”

She answered with a pout: “Think of appearances, Prince. I consider that one should not let oneself go, but should keep up appearances on all occasions.”

But he was too far gone, and raising his face to her, his eyes in a mist, he only said, “Imma—little Imma——”

Then she took his hand, the left, atrophied one, the deformity, the hindrance in his lofty calling, which he had been wont from boyhood to hide artfully and carefully—she took it and kissed it.