he habit of appearing at the first table d'hote,
and then doing homage to the peaceful custom of afternoon sleep. In the
first cool hours of the morning she walked a little in the perfumed air
of the pine woods, and the rest of the time she devoted to a voluminous
correspondence, which seemed to be her one passion. Thus Loulou was
alone nearly always in the morning, and frequently in the afternoon as
well, and quite contented to ramble with Wilhelm through the woods, or
to sit with him in the ruins, where they learned to know each other,
and chattered without ceasing.

The subject of conversation mattered not. They had the story of their
short lives to relate to one another. Loulou's was soon told. Her
narrative was like the merry warbling of birds, and was from beginning
to end the story of a serene dream of spring. She was the only child of
her parents, who in spite of outward indifference and apparent coldness
adored her, and had never denied her anything. The first fifteen years
of her life were spent in her charming nest, in the beautiful house in
the Lennestrasse, where she was born. "When we return to Berlin you
shall see how pleasant my home is. I will show you my little blue
sitting-room, my winter garden, my aviary, my parrots and blackbirds."
A heavy trial had befallen her--the only trial that she had yet
experienced. She had been sent to England for the completion of her
education, and had to suddenly part from all her home surroundings. She
stayed there for three years with an aunt who had married an English
banker. The visit proved delightful, and she grew to love England
enthusiastically. She drove and rode, and even followed the hounds. In
winter there was the pantomime at Drury Lane, the flights to St.
Leonards, Hastings, Leamington, the mad rides across country through
frosted trees behind the hounds in full cry; in summer during the
season there were parties, balls, the opera, the park; then in the
holidays splendid travels with papa and mamma, once to Belgium, France,
and the Rhine, another time to Switzerland and Italy, then to
Heligoland and Norway. No, she could never have such good times again.
In the following year she went back to Berlin, and had spent a very
agreeable winter, a subscription ball, several other balls, innumerable
soirees, a box at the opera, lovely acquaintances, with naturally many
successes--the envy of false friends, but she did not allow herself to
be much disturbed by them