"I am aware of that, of course, and yet I am so proud and seem quite different from all the women whom I know. You see if you knew … if you were acquainted with him—it is such a strange affair! You mustn't think, let me tell you, that it is an acquaintanceship which I have made recently—quite the contrary; I have been in love with him, you must know, ever since I was quite a young girl, no less than twelve years ago. For a long time we had completely lost sight of one another, and now—isn't it wonderful?—now he is my … my … my … lover!"
She had said it at last. Her whole face was radiant.
Frau Rupius threw her a glance in which could be detected a little scorn and a great deal of kindliness.
"I am glad that you are happy," she said.
"How very kind you are indeed! But then, you see, on the other hand again, it is a dreadful thing that we are so far apart from one another; he, in Vienna; I, here—I don't think I shall ever be able to endure that. Moreover, I have ceased to feel that I belong to this place, least of all to my relations. If they knew … no, if they knew! However, they would never be able to bring themselves to believe it. A woman like my sister-in-law, for instance—well, I am perfectly certain that she could never imagine such a thing to be in any way possible."
"But you are really very ingenuous!" said Frau Rupius suddenly, almost with exasperation. Then she listened for a moment. "I thought I could hear the train whistling already."
She rose to her feet, walked over to the large glass door leading on to the platform, and looked out. A porter came and asked for the tickets in order to punch them.
"The train for Vienna is twenty minutes late," he remarked, at the same time.
Bertha had stood up and gone over to Frau Rupius.
"Why do you consider that I am ingenuous?" she asked shyly.