"As time has passed," continued the Poet's Wife, "the less she has cared for the lieutenant and the more she realizes that her feeling for Heinrich is deeper than the passing fancy which her family would have her believe. Don't blame her, my dear. You American girls are brought up very differently from ours here, and it is hard for you to understand. The letter to-day was, I feel sure, from Heinrich. Much as she has longed to hear from him, she is too honorable to permit any correspondence. A short time ago, however, Heinrich wrote a letter without her aunt's knowledge, and begged her to see him. After much misgiving she consented and a meeting was arranged----"
"Yes. How did you guess? Probably the rash fellow has dared to write and propose another scheme. 'Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,'" she quoted.
"How will it all come out, I wonder," said I, puzzled.
"Indeed, I am wondering the same thing. It was while you were in Meran, you know, that Fräulein told me this. Her aunt was ill with the gout, and one morning we went for a walk together. She was feeling very unhappy, for in some way an unpleasant rumor concerning Blum's past had reached her, and I suppose the dear child couldn't keep her heart pent up any longer."
At her mention of Meran my mind flew back to the day I had seen the man I thought was Blum on the Promenade.
"Was the lieutenant in town then?" I asked.
"No. He had been called away on some law business," she answered.
A caller came in just at this point, so we had no more opportunity to talk together. I feel perfectly sure now that it _was_ Blum who was having such a gay time with that crowd of people. He may have used that law story merely as an excuse to take a holiday. I can't bear to think of that sensitive, lovable girl as his wife!
Dear me, Cecilia, this is a strange, strange world! One would imagine that with experience and the discretion which comes with years, things would straighten themselves out a bit; but the older one grows the queerer life is!
There is the smell of spring in the air to-day. As I passed through Odeons-Platz on my way to my lesson this morning the sun was flooding the whole square with a delicious warmth we have not felt for months. A soft breeze brought across from the Hof-Garten the odor of freshly upturned earth. In front of the Feldernhalle the pigeons were fluttering and whirling, now suddenly swooping down from the roof, then darting back again like arpeggios of light. Around the flag pole a crowd of laughing children were tossing crumbs, and then running shyly back into the arms of their bareheaded nurses as the birds flocked near. The scene, in a dim way, suggested the Piazza of San Marco, and I gave a sigh for a sight of Venice,--its blue, unruffled waters, its marble palaces, and the white dome of the Maria della Salute against its peerless sky.