"It's not meant to come to anything," retorted Else. "I thought you knew that by this time, mamma. We're good friends, nothing more—and even that only at intervals; or do you really think that I'm in love with him, mamma? Yes, when I was a little girl I was, in Nice, when we played tennis together, but that is long past."
"Well—and Florence?"
"In Florence—I was more in love with Felician."
"And now?" asked Frau Ehrenberg slowly.
"Now ... you're probably thinking of Heinrich Bermann ... but you're making a mistake, mother."
"I prefer to be making a mistake. But this summer I really quite had the impression that——"
"I tell you," interrupted Else a little impatiently, "it isn't anything and never was anything. On one solitary occasion, when we went out boating on a sultry afternoon, you saw us from your balcony with your opera-glasses, no doubt—it was only then that it became a little dangerous. And even supposing we had fallen on each other's neck—which as a matter of fact we never did—it wouldn't have meant anything. It was simply a summer flirtation."
"And besides, he's supposed to be involved in a very serious love-affair," said Frau Ehrenberg.
"You mean ... with that actress, mamma?"
Frau Ehrenberg looked up. "Did he tell you anything about her?"