ith goods, properly selected, was beyond expression
horrid. From his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and he
was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from
other points of view. His amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic;
he was like a child in the presence of a thing that he absolutely could
not understand. The interview had left him with a sense of insecurity
which he felt to be particularly unfair.

The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her
hair floating behind her, and tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Papa!" she cried, "you have been cruel to Chris. The door is locked;
I can hear her crying--why have you been cruel?" Without waiting to be
answered, she flew out again.

Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands: "Good! Very good! My own
child, please! What next then?"

Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly. "My head is very bad," she
said, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones: "It is no use making a
fuss--nothing can come of this--he has not a penny. Christian will have
nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can
but avoid an apoplectic fit!"

At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust. "Hum!" he
muttered; it was as if the world were bent on being brutal to him. Mrs.
Decie continued:

"If I know anything of this young man, he will not come here again,
after the words you have spoken. As for Christian--you had better talk
to Nicholas. I am going to lie down."

Herr Paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, short
neck.

"Nicholas! Certainly--a good idea. Quelle diable d'afaire!"

'French!' thought Mrs. Decie; 'we shall soon have peace. Poor
Christian! I'm sorry! After all, these things are a matter of time and
opportunity.' This consoled her a good deal.

But for Christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame,
fear and anger. Would he forgive? Would he be true to her? Or would he
go away without a word? Since yesterday it was as if she had stepped
into another world, and lost it again. In place of that new feeling,
intoxicating as wine, what was coming? What bitter; dreadful ending?

A rude entrance this into the life of facts, and primitive emotions!

She let Greta into her room after a time, for the child had begun
sobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour after hour at the window
with the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to