. She did not
refer to the speech, but a consciousness of it showed in her
embarrassment and in the distrustful mirth of her eyes. She did not know
how I looked upon it, nor how I would have her take it; was she to laugh
or to be solemn, to ridicule or to pretend with handsome ampleness?
There were duties attached to her greatness; was it among them to
swallow this? But she knew I liked to joke at some things which others
found serious; might she laugh with me at this extravagance?

"Well, you've read the debate?" I asked. "They all said exactly the
proper things."

"Did they? I didn't know what the proper things were."

"Oh, yes; except that mad fellow Wetter. It's a sad thing, Elsa; if only
he weren't a genius he'd have a great career."

She threw a timid questioning glance at me.

"Victoria says that he talked nonsense," she remarked.

"Victoria declares that it was you who said it."

"Well, I don't know which of us said it first," she laughed. "Princess
Heinrich said so too; she said he must have been reading romances and
gone mad, like Don Quixote."

"You've read some?"

"Oh, yes, some. Of course, it's different in a story."

So had observed William Adolphus. I marked Victoria as the common
origin.

"You see," said I tolerantly, "he's a man of very emotional nature. He's
carried away by his feelings, and he thinks other people are like
himself." And I laughed a little.

Elsa also laughed, but still doubtfully. She seemed ill at ease. I found
her venturing a swift stealthy glance at me; there was something like
fear in her eyes. I was curiously reminded of Victoria's expression when
she came to Krak with only a half of her exercise written, and
mistrusted the validity of her excuse. (Indeed it was always a bad one.)
What, then, had Wetter done for her? Had he not set up a hopeless
standard of grim duty, frowning and severe? My good sister had meant to
be consolatory with her "great nonsense," remembering, perhaps, the
Baron over there at Waldenweiter. Elsa was looking straight before her
now, her brows puckered. I glanced down at the hand in her lap and saw
that it trembled a little. Suddenly she turned and found me looking; she
blushed vividly and painfully.

"My dearest little cousin," said I, taking her hand, "don't trouble your
very pretty head about such matters. Men are not all Wetters; the
fellow's a poet if only he knew it. Come, Elsa, you and I understand one
another."

"You're very kind