"She really is the most charming of all," such was the end of his reflections, "if only she weren't so damnably sensible."
Silently she took her seat opposite him, folded her white hands in her lap, and looked into his eyes with such significant archness that he began to feel embarrassed.
Had she any suspicion of his infidelities?
Surely not. No jealous woman can look about her so calmly and serenely.
"What have you been doing all this time?" he asked.
"I? Good heavens! Look about you and you'll see."
She pointed to a heap of books which lay scattered over the window seat and sewing table.
There were Moltke's letters and the memoirs of von Schön, and Max
Müller's Aryan studies. Nor was the inevitable Schopenhauer lacking.
"What are you after with all that learning?" he asked.
"Ah, dear friend, what is one to do? One can't always be going about in strange houses. Do you expect me to stand at the window and watch the clouds float over the old city-wall?"