“It seems to me that five years is just the right amount of time, Eberhard.”
“Five years! Each year has twelve times thirty, fifty-two times seven days. Why, the arithmetic of it is enough to make a man lose his mind.”
“But it must be five years,” said Eleanore gently though firmly. “In five years I will not have changed. And if I am just the same in five years from now, why, we’ll talk it over again. I must not exclude myself from the world forever. My father often says: What looks like fate at Easter is a mere whim by Pentecost. I prefer to wait until Pentecost and not to forget my friend in the meantime.”
She gave him her hand with a smile.
He shook his head: “No, I can’t take your hand; another one of those shudders will run through you if I do. Farewell, Eleanore.”
“And you too, Eberhard, farewell!”
Eberhard started down the hill. Suddenly he stopped, turned around, and said: “Just one thing more. That musician—Nothafft is his name, isn’t it?—is engaged to your sister, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Gertrude and Daniel will get married some day. But who told you about it?”
“The musician himself was in a restaurant. The fellows were drinking, and he was so incautious as to raise his glass, and, somewhat after the fashion of an intoxicated drum-major, he himself drank to Gertrude’s health. For some time there was talk of his marrying you. It is much better as it is. I can’t stand artists. I can’t even have due respect for them, these indiscreet hotspurs. Good night, Eleanore.”
And with that he vanished in the darkness.