"My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went with you to see Cushion-Kate. His going there shows that you can do more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"Did my father ask Cushion-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?"
"Confess? Your father is acquitted."
"Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have said be as if unheard."
"Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg you disburden your soul."
"Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady, I--I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What have I said?"
"Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?"
"Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill him, I did it in anger,'--that is honest and brings one to honor again. How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for money--for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year on Whitsunday I was with my father at St. Blasius. There was a woman there who had painted her cheeks red, and put flour on her neck and forehead. There she sat, in broad daylight, and looked boldly at people, to see if they saw her beautiful red cheeks and white neck, while she herself knew that she was not young, but on the contrary, old and wrinkled."
"I understand. You think it is unworthy of your father."