“He did not see it;—of course not, the old lunatic.”
“May I be permitted to look at the letter, Miss Winters?”
“There it is. It is a very instructive letter in its way, written in far better German than mine.”
Gustav took the letter, and studied it leisurely. It was dignified and courteous, spoke in high terms of himself as a man of honour and learning to whom he should, in other circumstances, have been proud to entrust his daughter’s happiness. But its tone was unmistakable, its decision unalterable. Gustav sighed heavily as he returned it to Miss Winters.
“He’s a fanatic—that’s just what he is,” she cried.
“And the worst of it is, Miss Winters, one is forced to admire such consistent and adamantine fanaticism, though its bigotry be the bar to one’s own happiness.”
“Why, of course, that’s the worst of it. If there were not such an element of nobility in it I should not want to shake him so much. It is always a satisfaction to be able to call the person who opposes or frustrates your purpose a scoundrel or a brute—but not to be able to call him anything harder than a pig-headed old pagan, and to have to smile admiration through one’s rage of disappointment, puts a point upon one’s anger. Well, never mind, Mr. Reineke. I’ll thwart him yet. I’ll write to the girl next.”
Gustav gasped and doubtless thought—as the French critic thought of Moses—“cette femme est capable de tout.”
They went together to Sunium, and photographed everything in the neighbourhood, ruins, peasants in fustanella and embroidered jackets, women in embroidered tunics and headgear of coins and muslin, and then went to Corinth and accomplished similar wonders there.
“I quite feel as if I had a son,” said Miss Winters, patting Gustav’s hand affectionately.