A faint, rather weary smile passed over Frau von Arnim's lips.
"Illness with Hildegarde is never far off, lieber Junge," she said. "She is like an ungarrisoned castle exposed to the attack of every enemy. The least thing—something which leaves you and me unharmed—throws her off her balance no one knows how or why."
"And she was once so strong!" he said, half to himself. "Nothing could tire her, and she was never ill—never."
"Wolff, there is no good in remembering what was and can never be again."
"Never?" he queried.
"Not so far as we can see."
His strongly marked brows knitted themselves in pain.
"Would to God it had all happened to me!" he broke out impulsively. "Then it would not have been so bad."
"It would have been much worse," Frau von Arnim answered. "Women suffer better than men, Wolff. It is one of their talents. After a time, Hildegarde will find consolation where you would only have found bitterness."
"After a time!" he repeated. "Then she is not happy? Poor Hildegarde!"