She stopped, surprised at the agitation of her companion, who had buried his face in his hands, and was stifling a groan.
“What is it, Herr Maurice?” she asked anxiously. “Are you ill? Shall I call father?”
“No. Say nothing. Take no notice.”
And he got up abruptly, and made his way out of the arbour.
In the mean time Herr Auguste had gone for a stroll round the garden with old Franz.
On the way he engaged in conversation about Dorothea.
“How old is your daughter?” he began.
“Just seventeen, Excellency.”
“Do not call me that,” said the other quickly. “I have no title, except plain Herr.”
“As the Herr pleases,” returned the forester bowing, with evident incredulity. “Dorothea is a good girl,” he added. “She does what her father tells her, in everything.”