"But, my child," Aunt Thekla interposed, reproachfully, "you cannot mean—Johanna is really so good,—so simple,—so modest."
"There is just where she shows her art, my dear aunt, in preventing almost every one from observing the pains she takes to make herself of importance," Magelone rejoined. "A simple creature like myself would have said, 'Thanks, my dear Otto; it is rather too warm for your scheme.' But she sacrifices herself for grandpapa,—stays in a cool room entirely for his sake."
"You are unjust," Otto said, with unusual emphasis.
"And you are partial," Magelone declared. "But wait; your eyes will be opened. At present it would be pleasant to close them," she added, changing her tone, "in this intolerable heat." And, fluttering her fan diligently, she followed Aunt Thekla into the drawing-room, where the old lady took her accustomed seat in the corner of the sofa for a short nap, and her niece seated herself near her in a rocking-chair, and from beneath her drooping eyelids watched Otto, who had withdrawn to the centre window in an ill humour and was turning over the leaves of a periodical.
Magelone's fan fluttered faster. How strange that Otto should not avail himself of this rare opportunity for an undisturbed tête-à-tête! Had he been really provoked by her attack upon Johanna? If this were the case, he must be duly punished. A minute or two passed in impatient expectation, and then, when Aunt Thekla's regular breathing betrayed her unconsciousness, Magelone called, in an undertone, "Otto!" He looked up, and she signed with her fan towards an ottoman near her.
He obeyed, drew the ottoman close beside her, put both hands upon the arm of the rocking-chair, and looked into Magelone's mocking, glimmering eyes.
"Well?" she asked, after a short pause.
"Well?" he repeated. "I thought you had something to say to me."
"Yes, all sorts of things," she replied, and leaned back her head without ceasing to look at him. "First of all, I want to know why you are so cross on your birthday?"
"Cross?" he repeated, bitterly. "Have I not cause to be seriously out of humour? Thirty years old, and what am I?—what do I possess? Not even a prospect! But it is no easy matter to put one's self in another's place. You settle the affair by calling a man cross when he is sad, then shrug your shoulders and let him go. Ill humour deserves neither sympathy nor consolation."