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youth.
    They led the professor to a place of honour in another carved chair near the fire and sat about him on cushions and stools as though he were the head of some regal court. It was obvious that the Count’s wife was a great deal younger than he; she could not have been more than thirty-eight or forty, and her dark, clear-moulded beauty would have stood out in any company.
    Her daughter was about eighteen, slim and tall like her parents, but with hair of a subtle blonde texture that shimmered and gleamed in the firelight as it fell in long, careless waves across her shoulders. Coleridge had only a few moments to take in the general aspects of these remarkable-looking women before they were plying him with questions, as though he were some university lecturer and they the students.
    ‘I am au fait with your latest work, The Essence of Lycanthropy , Professor,’ said the Countess Irina in a low, well-modulated voice which, like her son’s, had little trace of an accent. ‘I should place it within the canon of your most important works; among the top three of your most significant books to date.’
    Coleridge was astonished. The book had been published in America only the month before, and he would not have thought the English language version could have penetrated into this far outpost of Europe.
    ‘You are too kind,’ Coleridge murmured, aware of the eyes of the other two ladies upon him. The granddaughter had caught his expression, for she said with good-natured irony, ‘We have excellent bookshops in Pest, Professor. The city is noted for its culture and learning.’
    Coleridge smiled easily. He felt more relaxed now.
    ‘I am well aware of that,’ he conceded.
    His host was smiling too.
    ‘We hope you will enlarge upon your theories at our gatherings here,’ he said. ‘There will be a free day tomorrow, as you must be tired after your journey. But we have a full programme from Saturday onward. The library and all the facilities of the Castle are open to you. And your colleagues’ own papers promise some verbal fireworks!’
    His eyes sparkled with a mischief which was very far removed from malice, and Coleridge smiled round the circle. He did not make friends very easily, but he was beginning to feel at home here already.
    The Countess Irina, now that he had more time to study her, seemed even more striking close up than she had from a distance. Despite her great age her hair was only slightly powdered with grey, leaving raven strands at the sides of her head and at the temple. The hair was drawn back and secured with a silver comb, no doubt in order to fully reveal the fine bone structure of her face.
    She wore a light coating of powder over features which were surprisingly free from wrinkles, and her grey eyes were now so dark that they appeared almost jet-black. Her teeth were finely kept when she smiled and appeared to be entirely natural; her lips were still full and rosy, though Coleridge imagined their texture was maintained with the skilful use of makeup.
    She wore a heavy dress of some thick material, with a high-fitting collar to hide her wrinkled throat and sleeves descending to her wrists. From the right hand a handkerchief of fine lace showed as she moved her long, slender hands restlessly in her lap.
    Apart from the silver comb she wore little jewellery, merely a single row of pearls which hung loosely over the bosom and two antique silver rings set with diamonds on her left hand. Altogether she made a remarkable impression on the visitor with her general vivacity and the vitality reflected in her voice and gestures.
    Countess Sylva, her daughter-in-law, was of an entirely different mould, the professor judged. She was dark, like the older Countess, but there the resemblance ended. With her rosy cheeks that owed little to makeup, smooth broad brow, and deep, almost cobalt eyes, she would have passed muster in any salon of Paris or Vienna. She too had very little accent in her English, but from