There was an accent of sincerity in the last phrase which drew a sharp glance from the doctor.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “He was killed, was he not?”
Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth twitched.
“Killed in one of the very last battles, mein Herr.” She drew a long sobbing breath and looked wildly at him. “Ach Gott! do not remind me! do not remind me!” she cried. “He was all I had in the world—everything—everything! You do not know how good and kind and loving he was! And now he is gone—he will never come back—never—never! And I loved him so!” She broke down into sobs, hiding her face in her hands.
The doctor waited until the crisis had subsided. A diagnosis of hysteria formed itself in his professional mind.
“So you have no real interest in this collection?” he enquired. “Would you sell it?”
“Ach, nein—nein!” she answered. “I keep it in memory of him, my Heinrich, who loved it so.—I feel him here when I dust it and care for it.” She looked wildly round the room. “I feel him here now!”
The doctor nodded his head in courteous assent to a possibility.
“Did he inherit it?” he asked casually, as though merely pursuing a conversation which could not, in politeness, be allowed to cease on a note of distress.
She shook her head.