Lenore, however, was unable to suppress her displeasure; and, leaving the room in silence, she went to look for Anton out of doors.
"What are you and Eugene differing about?" she cried, as soon as she saw him.
"Has he been complaining of me to you?" inquired Anton, in return.
"Not to me; but in his letter to my father he does not speak as he ought of one who has been so kind to him."
"Perhaps this is accidental—a fit of ill-humor that will pass off."
"No, it is more, and I will know about it."
"If it be more, you can only hear it from himself."
"Then, Wohlfart," cried Lenore, "Eugene has been doing something wrong, and you know of it."
"Be that as it may," returned Anton, gravely, "it is not my secret, else I should not withhold it from you. I pray you to believe that I have acted uprightly toward your brother."
"What I believe little signifies," cried Lenore. "I am to know nothing; I understand nothing; I can do nothing in this wretched world but grieve and fret when others are unjust to you."