“The mistake we have made in the past—as a sex,” said she, “is in not realising that our gifts of giving are for the whole world—we are the glad sacrifice of ourselves!”
“Oh!” cried Elsa rapturously, and almost bursting into gifts as she breathed—“how I know that! You know ever since Fritz and I have been engaged, I share the desire to give to everybody, to share everything!”
“How extremely dangerous,” said I.
“It is only the beauty of danger, or the danger of beauty” said the Advanced Lady—“and there you have the ideal of my book—that woman is nothing but a gift.”
I smiled at her very sweetly. “Do you know,” I said, “I, too, would like to write a book, on the advisability of caring for daughters, and taking them for airings and keeping them out of kitchens!”
I think the masculine element must have felt these angry vibrations: they ceased from singing, and together we climbed out of the wood, to see Schlingen below us, tucked in a circle of hills, the white houses shining in the sunlight, “for all the world like eggs in a bird’s nest”, as Herr Erchardt declared. We descended upon Schlingen and demanded sour milk with fresh cream and bread at the Inn of the Golden Stag, a most friendly place, with tables in a rose-garden where hens and chickens ran riot—even flopping upon the disused tables and pecking at the red checks on the cloths. We broke the bread into the bowls, added the cream, and stirred it round with flat wooden spoons, the landlord and his wife standing by.
“Splendid weather!” said Herr Erchardt, waving his spoon at the landlord, who shrugged his shoulders.
“What! you don’t call it splendid!”
“As you please,” said the landlord, obviously scorning us.
“Such a beautiful walk,” said Fräulein Elsa, making a free gift of her most charming smile to the landlady.