"Gretchen," I called, "do not go. Forgive me; if only you understood!'"
"Perhaps I do understand," she replied with a gentleness new to me.
"Do you remember why I asked you to stay?"
"Yes; I was to be your friend."
"This time it is for me to ask whether I go or stay."
"Stay, Gretchen!" But I was a hypocrite when I said it.
"I knew that you would say that," simply.
"Gretchen, sit down and I'll tell you the story of my life, as they say on the stage." I knocked the dead ash from my pipe and stuffed the bowl with fresh weed. I lit it and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Do you see that, Gretchen?"
"Yes, Herr," sitting down, the space of a yard between us.
"It is pretty, very; but see how the wind carries it about! As it leaves my throat it looks like a tangible substance. Reach for it and it is gone. That cloud of smoke is my history."
"It disappears," said Gretchen.