my one and only friend.... My books remain. And that's very well by
day ... but when the lamps are lit I begin to throb and ache and run
about ... and I listen for the trill of the door-bell. But no one
comes, nothing--except the evening paper. And that's only in winter.
Now it's brought before dusk. And in the end there's nothing worth
while in it.... And so life goes day after day. At last one creeps
into bed at half-past nine and, of course, has a wretched night."

"Well, but how am I to help you, dear child?" he asked thoughtfully.
He was touched by her quiet, almost serene complaint. "If we took to
passing our evenings together, scandal would soon have us by the
throat, and then--woe to you!"

Her eager eyes gazed bravely at him.

"Well," she said at last, "suppose----"

"What?"

"Never mind. I don't want you to think me unwomanly. And what I've
been describing to you is, after all, only a symptom. There's a kind
of restlessness in me that I can't explain.... If I were of a less
active temper, things would be better.... It sounds paradoxical, but
just because I have so much activity in me, do I weary so quickly.
Goethe said once----"

He raised his hands in laughing protest.

She was really frightened.