Surely not. No jealous woman can look about her so calmly and
serenely.

"What have you been doing all this time?" he asked.

"I? Good heavens! Look about you and you'll see."

She pointed to a heap of books which lay scattered over the window
seat and sewing table.

There were Moltke's letters and the memoirs of von Schoen, and Max
Mueller's Aryan studies. Nor was the inevitable Schopenhauer lacking.

"What are you after with all that learning?" he asked.

"Ah, dear friend, what is one to do? One can't always be going about
in strange houses. Do you expect me to stand at the window and watch
the clouds float over the old city-wall?"

He had the uncomfortable impression that she was quoting something
again.

"My mood," she went on, "is in what Goethe calls the minor of the
soul. It is the yearning that reaches out afar and yet restrains
itself harmoniously within itself. Isn't that beautifully put?"

"It may be, but it's too high for me!" In laughing self-protection, he
stretched out his arms toward her.