He judged his young brother not only harshly, but unfairly. He could feel nothing for the generous impulse which had brought down upon itself such magnificent ruin. Most of us imagine we recognize virtue when we see it; in reality we only recognize our own peculiar form.
“There _is_ no money,” said Otto, fiercely, and he groaned aloud.
Aunt Louisa came gliding in through the open smoking-room door. Her features were sharper than ever in her smooth black dress.
“That is a very bad story, indeed, about Adeline,” she said, speaking in a series of bites. Otto looked up interrogatively.
“Oh, of course I know all about it,” continued the Freule, who had known nothing up to this hour. “Adeline is an actress, or singer, or something low. Nevertheless, I think Helena van Trossart has behaved like a fool. A strong woman lives down all her husband’s love-stories.” She blinked her eyes. “Any woman can manage any man,” she said. “_I_ never considered the game worth playing”--which was true.
“But it’s best to know about these things beforehand,” she went on. “That’s why I told you about Ursula and Gerard. Afterwards they come as an unpleasant surprise, while, before marriage, one simply laughs at them. Helena ought to have thanked Ursula for frankly confessing to a passing flirtation with Gerard. Instead of that, she goes and breaks off her engagement. Inane! We can’t all marry first affections, as your poor mother thinks she did. But Helena van Trossart was always a poor, weak, fanciful creature.”
“It is not that,” thought Otto. “Women never object to a _prior_ flirtation.” He looked up again, dumbly, to see whether his aunt would continue to use her gimlet.
“However, there’s no help for it now,” cried the Freule Louisa, changing her tone. “The marriage would have been the best thing for all parties, and that’s why it’s not to take place. So don’t let’s talk of it. But the money must be found at once. So let’s talk of that.”
“It can’t be found,” muttered Otto, wishing his aunt wouldn’t interfere, and very angry with her for eavesdropping.
“‘Can’t’ is a man’s word,” replied the Freule van Borck. “Your poor father used to say it whenever he didn’t want to do anything. You say it when you want to do anything very much. The symptoms are different, but the disease is the same--masculine incapacity. A woman says, ‘I will.’”