And now she had finished, and she laid the blue exercise-book down with modest satisfaction, and went back to grandmamma, who had been listening to her report, beaming with delight.
He followed her, and grasped her industrious little hand with a smile in which there was a gleam of almost paternal emotion.
"You are a plucky little girl," he said. "I am much obliged to you."
That was all. He might, at least, have said that he hoped she would go on and prosper.
She ran out to cool her hot cheeks in the shade of the limes. Her throat felt like lead from her strangled tears. She was depressed by the consciousness that her soul's elated triumph had been followed by a humiliation. She had expected something tremendous, unspeakable. What, she hardly knew herself. At any rate, she need not have been thanked so curtly, almost grudgingly.
Near the obelisk she came on Elly, exercising grandmamma's pug at the end of a blue ribbon, which was not in the least necessary.
She ran to meet Hertha with an air of great importance, saying a terrible misfortune had happened, and her whole future happiness was at stake. She really thought she should have to put an end to herself.
"What is the matter?" asked Hertha.
It was this. Christian had reported that this morning a sealed letter addressed to her had been lying on Uncle Kutowski's table, and that now it had disappeared.
"Well, what harm is there in that?" asked Hertha. "You should never have had any secrets with that dreadful old man."