"Yes," he replied with animation. "And if I hadn't been so awkward I should have begged your pardon immediately for having unintentionally spied on you. I saw how startled you were. But I myself was so--how shall I say? All I thought was: 'Clear out. You'll be serving the lady best that way.'"

His frank, blithe manner did her good, though it shamed her a little.

"Now you've done me a much greater service," she said, feeling as appreciative as if he had saved her life.

"Oh, don't speak of it. If only I had turned back instantly. But the earth seemed to have swallowed you up. I was worried about you."

She smiled to herself, fearful in her happiness. A little more, and she would have acknowledged where she had stowed herself.

"What did you think of me when you saw me strolling about the woods alone?" she asked.

"That you don't feel alone when you're with nature. Otherwise you'd have had company with you."

"You're right," she replied eagerly. "Besides, my carriage was waiting in the Hundekehlenrestaurant"--after all the carriage would play its part--"but it was imprudent of me. I suppose you are also very fond of nature?"

"Very? I hardly know. I must say in Cordelia's words: I love it 'according to my bond; nor more nor less.' To love nature is really no merit nor peculiarity. It is simply a vital function. Don't you agree with me?"

"Certainly," she faltered, and thought, "Oh, how clever he is? How will I acquit myself?"

"But to be quite frank," he continued, "I am having a strange experience with nature here. I cannot accustom myself to it. Its poverty oppresses me. I am like one who has outgrown his home and reproaches himself for it. I try to get back to my old att.i.tude, and I admire and flatter German nature whenever I possibly can. But first other pictures in my mind must fade. You see I have just returned from Italy, where I spent the last two years."

Heaving a deep sigh Lilly stared at him. She felt as if now he were absolutely unearthly.

"Two whole years?" she asked in astonishment.

"I am working on a large scientific work, on account of which--no, I was really sent to Italy on account of my health. My uncle, who's a father to me, wanted me to go. I didn't think of the work until I got there.

Then my own country and my studies, everything, fell into the background."

As he spoke his eyes glowed and stared into s.p.a.ce, full of will and enthusiasm. The old, slumbering desire for Italy began to beat its wings again in Lilly's breast.

"Yes," she cried with the same enthusiasm as he, "isn't it so? There all ideas grow, and you feel what you can do, and you become what you wanted to be from the first. Isn't it so? I've never been there, but I feel what I say strongly. There, in the home of everything great and beautiful, you yourself become greater and more beautiful--and--everything--sordid pa.s.ses away. Isn't it so?"

He listened dumbfounded, and embraced her with a beaming gaze.

"Yes," he replied almost solemnly. "It is so, exactly."

She tingled with delight. Did it not seem that with these words he made an avowal of the inner union between them, the avowal she had hoped for from the very first instant of their meeting? Did it not seem that nothing now separated them?

She looked down helplessly.

Was he really the embodiment of that shade which had so senselessly fastened itself upon her soul since the Dresden days?

"I feel as if we had met before," she said softly without raising her eyes.

"Exactly the way I feel," he rejoined hastily. "But it cannot be, for I should know where and when."

"Were you in Dresden six years ago at about this time?"

"No," he said. "Six years ago I was studying at Bonn. The semester came to an end at this season, but I went directly to my uncle, who was having his castle restored."

"Where is his castle?"

"Near Coblenz."

So they had not met in Dresden.

"But if we both have the same feeling--" said Lilly.

"There are pictures in our souls which seem to be recollections, but in fact are previsions."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that one--that one--walks as on the edge of a knife between the past and the present, and reels and falls into a void the instant--"

"What?"

"The instant--" he broke off--"I beg your pardon, are you an artist?"

"Why?" she asked, unpleasantly taken aback. Did he want to make merry at her expense?

"I read your sign outside."

The sign! "Pressed Flower Studio."

Violently torn out of sweet dreams and plunged into bitter reality!

But now she must be on her guard. She must not lose his esteem.

"In a way," she replied. "A very modest sort of art which I used to pursue. But it made me very happy. I learned it just after I lost my husband"--the fatal "divorce" would not pa.s.s her lips--"less for the sake of a livelihood than to lend my life content. But then I had to give it up--because--of a trouble with my eyes."

Three lies in the same breath.

Why not? She was lies within and lies without. Every gesture, every thought was a lie. But the great cry of her soul vibrating through her entire being, "You shall be mine; I will be yours," was _not_ a lie. And for his sake she continued to lie.

"I don't like to speak of it." She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

"It still pains me. And please don't ever again refer to it in the future."

"Again," "in the future," she had said, as if taking it for granted that they would continue to meet. Her words filled her with shame and confusion.

She rose and turned her face aside.

"I beg pardon," he said, abashed. "I could not have divined--" He rose to take leave.

"Stay, stay, stay!" her soul cried. But she was unable to speak. She was benumbed.

Perhaps he had seen through her lies, and had instantly realised who she was, and did not care to remain. She felt haughtiness congealing her features.

"It was very kind of you," she said, graciously extending her finger tips.