"O papa, how could you be so hard and so unjust to that poor Herr Wilberg? He is so miserable."
The chief-engineer laughed out loud.
"Miserable! He? He is a miserable scribbler, that is what he is, always stringing abominable verses together; and the more one tries to make him understand it, the more madly he insists upon rushing into rhyme. As to that kiss"----
"Good gracious, papa! you are entirely mistaken," interrupted Mélanie, very decidedly. "It was only out of gratitude. He is in love with Lady Eugénie Berkow, and has been, quite hopelessly, of course, ever since she was married. It is natural he should feel wretched, and that her going away should drive him to despair."
"Oh, so it was his wretchedness and despair which made him kiss your hand. Odd, very. But how do you know all this, Mélanie? You seem very well informed about this fair-haired minstrel's love affairs."
The young lady raised her head with an unmistakable air of self-complacency.
"I am his confidant. He has poured out his whole heart to me. I tried to comfort him, but he will not be comforted; he is far too miserable for that."
"Here is a pretty story!" cried the chief-engineer, highly incensed. "So it has gone as far as that already, has it? Outpourings of the heart and attempts at consolation! I should not have thought that Wilberg was so clever. He, who speculates on the pity of you women, is pretty sure to--but we will put a stop to the thing at once. In future, you will be so good as not to listen to such confidential communications. They are most improper. As for the consolation business, I forbid it, once for all. I will take good care that he does not set his foot in the house again, so there's an end of it!"
Mélanie turned away, pouting. Her papa showed no great knowledge of mankind when he fancied that, with his dictatorial fiat, he had really put an end to the matter and laid the spectre, which had suddenly risen up before him in the guise of a verse-making, guitar-playing son-in-law. He ought to have known that, now for the first time, Fräulein Mélanie would seriously resolve upon offering any consolation in her power to the poor misunderstood Wilberg, whenever an opportunity of doing so should occur, and that Herr Wilberg would that very evening sit down to compose a poem "To Mélanie." Such matters are not settled by the mere words, "It is not to be, so there's an end of it."