Then suddenly he broke off, and the glass sank from his lips. He cast a searching look along the wall, then pulled himself together and emptied the glass with one draught.
Leo had followed his eyes. There on the wall hung the child's portrait.
Felicitas, too, betrayed uneasiness, and after a moment's consideration she poured a few drops out of her own glass into that of her husband's, and, leaning against him, tenderly whispered in his ear--
"To the absent one whom we both love."
Leo pretended to have noticed nothing. Then, to clear the threatening atmosphere, he began hastily--
"It can't be helped, children. We must settle a thorny matter once for all to-day, however difficult it may seem to discuss it just now."
Husband and wife listened aghast. Lizzie cowered and gave him a warning look, as much as to say, "For God's sake be quiet!" Then her glance glided to the picture. It seemed as if she feared that he would be tactless enough to begin talking of the boy.
"Well, then, the long and the short of it is," he continued, "how are we to break to our beloved neighbours what has happened to-day, and what all its consequences will be? For I don't mind betting that they are only waiting in their Christian patience for a chance of putting a scandalous interpretation on it."
Felicitas gave a sigh of relief, and threw him a grateful glance. "What is your opinion, dearest?" she asked, leaning her chin in the hollow of her hand, and looking up at her husband with a childlike expression.
He ran his clenched fingers through his scanty beard. "Don't ask me," he said. "What are we aristocrats for if we are not above that sort of thing? We ought to exercise our own personal discretion as we please in such matters, and not trouble ourselves about the good or evil tongues of a mere coffee party."