"I have made fresh coffee for you," said she; "I thought that you were probably terribly spoilt in such matters."
"I am not spoilt in that way nor in any other!" answered Reinhold brightly.
"Ah! the good old Schmidt blood!" said Aunt Rikchen. "Just like your poor dear grandfather, whom you are as like as two peas." At these words her eyes refilled with tears and were as hastily dried.
"I think Uncle Ernst must be the image of him," said Reinhold, "and I am not very like him."
"Not like him!" cried Aunt Rikchen, "then I do not know what likeness is! Though for that matter I know nothing--so he says."
She had taken up her knitting and was again working with nervous haste: there was considerable bitterness, too, in the tone of the last words, which came sharply and pointedly from between her compressed lips.
"He" evidently meant her brother; but Reinhold thought it better to tack about a little before he steered for that course.
"How do you mean, dear aunt?" said he.
"You won't understand," answered Aunt Rikchen, with a sharp look over her spectacles; "you won't see how he behaves to his only sister, and that he tyrannises over me and tyrannises over us all--there is no doubt about that."
"But, my dear aunt, that is my uncle's way, and you cannot expect anything else from him."